I was going to start by telling you all how cynical I used to be...but a majority of my readers have known me since birth, therefore, there is no need.
Two years ago I went on a coffee date with the cutie that played hacky sack at in high school. The coffee tasted great and the conversation was awesome, so we walked to the used book store. That was entertaining, so we decided to get dinner. Conversation continued to be great, but dinner had been devoured, so we went for a drink. The talking continued, and by the time we knew it, the whole afternoon, and a lot of the night had flown by us. I could easily say that I was immediately smitten by this tall Mexican Clark Gable. And in my reminiscent moods I will ask, "when did you know" and he will say "very early on, pretty much right away". And it really was like that. Since that day, not a day has gone by without each other.
And let me tell you about this cutie. I can't say he tamed the girl who joked about the holocaust, but he never was ashamed of her inappropriate humor. In fact, he reveled in it, provided additional jokes, laughed with her, even boasted about her. If there was ever time that I had gone too far, he never showed it to me, and he never made me feel ashamed. This was the guy that nurtured my love of history, and allowed the vast collection of WWII history books to be displayed on the mantel. This is the guy that told me to not be embarrassed, that I was perfect, even after gaining weight.
This is the kind of guy that loves and respects his family, and treats my family with the same love and respect. This is the guy that turned some hard women in to softies, my mother smiles and hugs him, and my aunts adore him. My sister calls us "america's cutest mexican couple.".
He is the man that surpassed the dreams that I never thought I had. He is the man that I believed did not exist in this life. A myth, a movie. And so every day, when I get the "buenos dias hermosa" text from him, I bite myself to make sure that this is all real. The butterflies still flutter, I steal glances of him every chance I get. And for the last year, I've had the privilege of living with him.
So, to the man, my dream come true, my adolf to my Eva, the greatest love of this life, and the next, a giant thank you for loving me, without condition, with giggles and tears, with the strongest open arms and the best hugs. Te adoro.
Your tumor.
Friday, November 1, 2013
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Mexican in Rome Part 2
Welcome to the second installment of my Travel Tuesday. If you are still following my blog...thank you and I promise to get as gross as possible in future posts. This one won't be so gross...
As mentioned previously...I was in Rome once when I was really young. I was a novice at this travel thing despite thinking I was the shit and knew everything about travel. I had my fluorescent clothes so I could blend with the Italian locals, I used broken phrases to get around. But I had made a few mistakes.
The first was that I had scheduled a trip in crotch sweat August. Everything stuck to me. It was hot, it was smelly, it was gross.
The second was that I had booked two week accommodations in one location. What that meant was that I would be stationed in Rome while only being able to travel on day trips. The trip was prepaid and it would have been a waste of money if I had taken off. I made the best of the situation and went on trips to Capri, only being able to spend two hours on their beach before hauling ass back to the docks to make the last boat back to the mainland.
It was on one of these day trips that my story begins.
The guided tour traveled to little towns that dot the Tuscan hillsides. The expeditions took us to places that sampled Orange flavored liquor and shoved raw hide goods in your face. So we ended up on this town called Orvieto. It was a medieval town located on some cliff. It was told to our group that this town was so exclusive, that it never allowed any tour buses to or cars and therefore had to hike up to this town. Made no difference, I was in Italy, I would have hiked to a death camp. So while in this town I find a novelty store that was selling swords....SWORDS. And this was no little plastic sword, this was metal, and big, not too sharp, but big. I buy the fucking thing because back home I had a teenage brother that would have believed me to be the most awesome sister ever if I brought a sword to him.
I was sitting on the bus making my way back to Rome and my hotel. I was tired, I was hot, but ecstatic. I had a sword. So the bus driver, an oily man with a profuse belly, announces the stops, Trilussa being one of them. My stop. At this point I had been in Rome for almost the two weeks. I knew exactly where Trilussa was in Rome. So we get to a stop, the bus driver mumbles something, no one gets off. Ok no biggie, he continues to another stop and says some other stop, a couple gets off. I start to worry. I make my way to the front.
"um, excuse me, Trilussa stop?"
If you had been there, you would have seen the large belly swell as his breathing became labored, saying "I stopped at Trilussa, you no get off! So you get off here!". He stops the bus on this narrow little Roman road. I look in disbelief as he opens the door, yelling "this isn't my stop". His fat face retorted, "I no care, you get off here."
"This isn't my stop, you have to take me to my stop"
"you get off"
"I paid to get taken to my stop!"
"you get off or I arrest"
"Fuck this!" I yell as I gather my bag and my sword. I make a huge display, stomping my feet and dragging the sword like some Edward Scissorhand. I step on the asphalt, and as the orca closes the bus door, I turn and use all of my body weight to kick the shit out of the bus door. It cracked.
My eyes widened and I see that this bus man is trying to open the door and get his ass up to yell at me, but more likely to call the cops on me. I yell "hi-ya" as I dash down some random alley way, with a sword in hand.
That sword was confiscated at the airport.
As mentioned previously...I was in Rome once when I was really young. I was a novice at this travel thing despite thinking I was the shit and knew everything about travel. I had my fluorescent clothes so I could blend with the Italian locals, I used broken phrases to get around. But I had made a few mistakes.
The first was that I had scheduled a trip in crotch sweat August. Everything stuck to me. It was hot, it was smelly, it was gross.
The second was that I had booked two week accommodations in one location. What that meant was that I would be stationed in Rome while only being able to travel on day trips. The trip was prepaid and it would have been a waste of money if I had taken off. I made the best of the situation and went on trips to Capri, only being able to spend two hours on their beach before hauling ass back to the docks to make the last boat back to the mainland.
It was on one of these day trips that my story begins.
The guided tour traveled to little towns that dot the Tuscan hillsides. The expeditions took us to places that sampled Orange flavored liquor and shoved raw hide goods in your face. So we ended up on this town called Orvieto. It was a medieval town located on some cliff. It was told to our group that this town was so exclusive, that it never allowed any tour buses to or cars and therefore had to hike up to this town. Made no difference, I was in Italy, I would have hiked to a death camp. So while in this town I find a novelty store that was selling swords....SWORDS. And this was no little plastic sword, this was metal, and big, not too sharp, but big. I buy the fucking thing because back home I had a teenage brother that would have believed me to be the most awesome sister ever if I brought a sword to him.
I was sitting on the bus making my way back to Rome and my hotel. I was tired, I was hot, but ecstatic. I had a sword. So the bus driver, an oily man with a profuse belly, announces the stops, Trilussa being one of them. My stop. At this point I had been in Rome for almost the two weeks. I knew exactly where Trilussa was in Rome. So we get to a stop, the bus driver mumbles something, no one gets off. Ok no biggie, he continues to another stop and says some other stop, a couple gets off. I start to worry. I make my way to the front.
"um, excuse me, Trilussa stop?"
If you had been there, you would have seen the large belly swell as his breathing became labored, saying "I stopped at Trilussa, you no get off! So you get off here!". He stops the bus on this narrow little Roman road. I look in disbelief as he opens the door, yelling "this isn't my stop". His fat face retorted, "I no care, you get off here."
"This isn't my stop, you have to take me to my stop"
"you get off"
"I paid to get taken to my stop!"
"you get off or I arrest"
"Fuck this!" I yell as I gather my bag and my sword. I make a huge display, stomping my feet and dragging the sword like some Edward Scissorhand. I step on the asphalt, and as the orca closes the bus door, I turn and use all of my body weight to kick the shit out of the bus door. It cracked.
My eyes widened and I see that this bus man is trying to open the door and get his ass up to yell at me, but more likely to call the cops on me. I yell "hi-ya" as I dash down some random alley way, with a sword in hand.
That sword was confiscated at the airport.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
TT: Goals...not the futbol kind
In stages, the goals in my life:
Age 5-11: Meet Rhett Butler, and possibly marry him in a Southern Wedding. Be the most perfect Scarlett O'Hara. Do this by dressing up as her for every halloween. If this does not work, try being the "little mermaid". She got the dark haired guy in the end...he can pass for Rhett Butler, can't he?
Age 11-13: Lose this baby fat before high school. The rolls are not cute and no one will ever kiss me. NO ONE. Meet Weezer, possibly be their band bitch. Become an Egyptologist, discover something awesome that changes every anthro/archaeology text known to man. Do this while entering in to the FBI Academy, meeting Fox Mulder, and having fraternal boy/girl twins.
Age 14-18: Don't get pregnant. Study for the SAT's. Get into AP English and History. Scrape through math and science. Don't get pregnant. Make friends, not enemies. Be a good friend. Don't get suspended...again. Don't get pregnant. Graduate and go away to college.
Age 19-21: Transfer in to SFSU. Don't party too much. Don't fall in love. Start to remove yourself from everyone. Develop a bad attitude. Travel. Travel a lot. Do it alone, or do it with someone, but do it.
Age 22-26: Get a job at a law firm in preparation for law school. Graduate and start working on the LSAT. Travel more. Don't have kids. Don't fall in love. Try something new. Make new friends. Keep your old friends too...
Age 26 - Present: Find a new career, because the law thing is a no go. You hate lawyers. Write more, because its what you love, and if you don't do it now, if you don't risk the criticism, you'll wake from a lifelong dream full of regrets. Marry the man that surpassed all of your dreams, even the ones that you never thought you could dream. Have a family. Adopt a dog. Travel the world with the person you fell in love with. Show him all of the things that you love. Move to another city, try it for a bit. Tell your family you love them because they have always loved you. Buy another car, the one you have is a your baby but its starting to fall apart. Get your credit in tip top shape, and dwindle the debt. You are almost there. Find the people you love, the friends, the family, and respect them for what they are. Find the people that bring the worst of you and cut them. Don't be afraid of this. Enjoy it, this day, this time, this moment. Because its going to be over. That life you knew, the people that you loved, they sometimes go when we don't want them to, and there is not much you can do about it. So make sure that its today that you do whatever your goal was to do.
Age 5-11: Meet Rhett Butler, and possibly marry him in a Southern Wedding. Be the most perfect Scarlett O'Hara. Do this by dressing up as her for every halloween. If this does not work, try being the "little mermaid". She got the dark haired guy in the end...he can pass for Rhett Butler, can't he?
Age 11-13: Lose this baby fat before high school. The rolls are not cute and no one will ever kiss me. NO ONE. Meet Weezer, possibly be their band bitch. Become an Egyptologist, discover something awesome that changes every anthro/archaeology text known to man. Do this while entering in to the FBI Academy, meeting Fox Mulder, and having fraternal boy/girl twins.
Age 14-18: Don't get pregnant. Study for the SAT's. Get into AP English and History. Scrape through math and science. Don't get pregnant. Make friends, not enemies. Be a good friend. Don't get suspended...again. Don't get pregnant. Graduate and go away to college.
Age 19-21: Transfer in to SFSU. Don't party too much. Don't fall in love. Start to remove yourself from everyone. Develop a bad attitude. Travel. Travel a lot. Do it alone, or do it with someone, but do it.
Age 22-26: Get a job at a law firm in preparation for law school. Graduate and start working on the LSAT. Travel more. Don't have kids. Don't fall in love. Try something new. Make new friends. Keep your old friends too...
Age 26 - Present: Find a new career, because the law thing is a no go. You hate lawyers. Write more, because its what you love, and if you don't do it now, if you don't risk the criticism, you'll wake from a lifelong dream full of regrets. Marry the man that surpassed all of your dreams, even the ones that you never thought you could dream. Have a family. Adopt a dog. Travel the world with the person you fell in love with. Show him all of the things that you love. Move to another city, try it for a bit. Tell your family you love them because they have always loved you. Buy another car, the one you have is a your baby but its starting to fall apart. Get your credit in tip top shape, and dwindle the debt. You are almost there. Find the people you love, the friends, the family, and respect them for what they are. Find the people that bring the worst of you and cut them. Don't be afraid of this. Enjoy it, this day, this time, this moment. Because its going to be over. That life you knew, the people that you loved, they sometimes go when we don't want them to, and there is not much you can do about it. So make sure that its today that you do whatever your goal was to do.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Another Chapter in Awkward Handbook
If you are my friend on FaceBook you may have already read that I made a career change. I did, after all, blast the shit out of my recent change. Leaving the law office was bittersweet, leaving it for a different field? That's some exciting shit right there.
After seven years of working in the law field, and after briefly flirting with the LSAT, I left this field. Seven years of other people's health and liberty within the grasp of my pudgy fingers.
I wanted to be a lawyer, I wanted to get experience. So I decide to work for attorneys to get experience before graduating college. I didn't want to get myself in to law school debt only to find out that I fucking hated it. And guess what...I fucking hated it. Attorneys are weird. Helpful, but lack empathy. Not all of them, but some of them. They are the poster children for successful asperger stories. I thought I would fit right in....But I failed. I thought I had empathy, but my client's annoyed the shit out of me.
Let me explain.
I loved what I did. I helped the disabled population get their SSI benefits. And while doing this, some of them died on me. That's right...they fucking died waiting for the US government to give them their medical benefits after working their whole life and losing it all because they were sick. Well I left that and dabbled in Immigration law. I got to tell people that because the notary they used when they first got here because they wanted to save a buck, filed their papers wrong, that they were going to get deported and permanently barred from the US. Didn't matter who they married, that they were educated, hard working, etc.
Immigration is a personal passion. And regardless of what you think, its an ass backwards institution. It's set up for failure. It's set up to mentally fuck.
I spent many years caring about the lives of others while failing to make a dent in mine. I was unhappy in what I did, I hated the money, and resented the people I chose to help. So I left. I jumped at the opportunity to enter the glitzy corporate world of commercial property management. You know the kind, pant suits and fancy coffee mugs kind of place.
And here is where the story gets awesome. Because this awkward Mexican walks in to the upper echelon of propriety. And do you know what I say? Do you know what I answer when I am asked how I like my change in career? I say, "its great, its not like the buildings I manage are going to get deported".
Their bleach blonde smiles went limp as I caught "the fuck?" expressions they exchanged. Oh well. Wait until they see my cubicle covered in Fox Mulder pictures... I might even bring my WWII SS Panzergrad cigarette case to show and tell!
This is going to be fun.
After seven years of working in the law field, and after briefly flirting with the LSAT, I left this field. Seven years of other people's health and liberty within the grasp of my pudgy fingers.
I wanted to be a lawyer, I wanted to get experience. So I decide to work for attorneys to get experience before graduating college. I didn't want to get myself in to law school debt only to find out that I fucking hated it. And guess what...I fucking hated it. Attorneys are weird. Helpful, but lack empathy. Not all of them, but some of them. They are the poster children for successful asperger stories. I thought I would fit right in....But I failed. I thought I had empathy, but my client's annoyed the shit out of me.
Let me explain.
I loved what I did. I helped the disabled population get their SSI benefits. And while doing this, some of them died on me. That's right...they fucking died waiting for the US government to give them their medical benefits after working their whole life and losing it all because they were sick. Well I left that and dabbled in Immigration law. I got to tell people that because the notary they used when they first got here because they wanted to save a buck, filed their papers wrong, that they were going to get deported and permanently barred from the US. Didn't matter who they married, that they were educated, hard working, etc.
Immigration is a personal passion. And regardless of what you think, its an ass backwards institution. It's set up for failure. It's set up to mentally fuck.
I spent many years caring about the lives of others while failing to make a dent in mine. I was unhappy in what I did, I hated the money, and resented the people I chose to help. So I left. I jumped at the opportunity to enter the glitzy corporate world of commercial property management. You know the kind, pant suits and fancy coffee mugs kind of place.
And here is where the story gets awesome. Because this awkward Mexican walks in to the upper echelon of propriety. And do you know what I say? Do you know what I answer when I am asked how I like my change in career? I say, "its great, its not like the buildings I manage are going to get deported".
Their bleach blonde smiles went limp as I caught "the fuck?" expressions they exchanged. Oh well. Wait until they see my cubicle covered in Fox Mulder pictures... I might even bring my WWII SS Panzergrad cigarette case to show and tell!
This is going to be fun.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
TT: Geek and Freak?
Let me tell you gentle readers, I never imagined this subject would make me think so hard and ponder on what to write. Geek. Its connotation once held such negativity that I sometimes shudder to hear the buxom blonde with black framed glasses to proclaim her moniker as geek. The fuck chick, the only thing geeky about you is your barbie collection softly stored in the hall closet, and even I have something like that. But its true, in this day, the word no longer means the end of a social life. Geek no longer encompasses trench coats and dungeons and dragons ( I had a brief d & d phase, and I didn't call it d &d). In this day, almost all can quote Star Wars, make references to Khaleesi, and explain the history of House Harkonnen. But in my infancy, in my dawn of creation, I had many phases of geekdom, many of which lead people to believe that not only was I this geeky chick wearing two sizes too big pants and band shirts, but that I was a amrginal frreak. I present to you, my many stages of Geektacity:
The Truth is Out There
The truth is out there, and I was certain that the love of my adolescent life, Mr. Fox Mulder was going to lead me to this truth. Let me tell you people, the X-files was more than just a show, this was THE show that introduced me into puberty. I didn't know what crushing, daydreaming, or tingling was until I watched this show. Yeah, I know what I just said. This was more than sci-fi, this was my life. It helped that I had been softly steered towards sci-fi whle I was still a toddler, but it was Fox, Mr. Hot man Mulder that really dragged me in to the depths of the unknown. He was the one that made me question our existence and to look for signs everywhere. I didn't care that they weren't on the cover of teen people, or that his hair didn't wisp like JTT (in case you didn't know, that's Jonathan Taylor Thomas), this was a man's man, with a gun, and a badge! I was going to join the FBI and find this man, and together we would gather the evidence to prove once and for all that the existence of aliens is here!!! And then after we would settle down on Catalina Island and have geeky FBI babies. I had to settle for the X-Files special edition barbie dolls. But I want to believe.
ASOS
Let me tell you, if you don't know ASOS, you don't actually know Game of Thrones. And if you only know Game of Thrones through HBO, that's ok, but shut the fuck up, because you don't actually know shit. You don't know what it is to sit there, at 16 years old, and cry yourself to sleep because the hero of the hour just had his head chopped off in front of everyone. You didn't lay awake at night wondering why George hates you so fucking much, why he chooses to pick off those people (and they are people, not just characters) and leave you there in a vat of tears, your heart in your throat, compounded with a loss of appetite. I do want to take this time to thank my friend for introducing me to the series and essentially making me the most annoying girl that my boyfriend has ever had to endure. Thanks for letting me geek out on you babe. And quite honestly, I am grateful to HBO...that show is fucking amazing.
History
I spent my Senior year perched on a tree in the quad of my high school, or in the corner of the media center reading about Henry Rex (VIII) and his marital conquests. Why? Because he was bad ass whose dick prompted a religious reformation and broke ties with the Pope. He was also a bad ass because the guy married six times...six times!!! I believe that number can only be rivaled by Elizabeth Taylor, who conincidentally was married to Richard Burton (twice), who played the role of Henry in "Anne of the Thousand Days". But now I have gone off on a tangent.
Lets not forget Schindler's List and the impact it made on my historical brain. Ralph Fiennes in a SS uniform. Holy shit...I was sold. I had to know everything and anything about World War II, Germany, the SS, Hitler, genocide...my world had become endless, a vast canvas of lives and events that had all come before me. I had to learn of them all. I had to know them, their speech, their dress, their friends. I devoured each sentence and voraciously searched for the next chapter. I still do.
It doesn't stop there. Each event that passes I somehow tie in to fascism and fanaticism. My references to the wars, great or civil, sometimes are too much for my listener to comprehend. Many a time I have gotten the "here we go again the with nazis" or "the romanovs are dead".
But those that know me and love me, and maybe not love me, but know me, will tell you, "that's just her, she really geeks on this shit."
The Truth is Out There
The truth is out there, and I was certain that the love of my adolescent life, Mr. Fox Mulder was going to lead me to this truth. Let me tell you people, the X-files was more than just a show, this was THE show that introduced me into puberty. I didn't know what crushing, daydreaming, or tingling was until I watched this show. Yeah, I know what I just said. This was more than sci-fi, this was my life. It helped that I had been softly steered towards sci-fi whle I was still a toddler, but it was Fox, Mr. Hot man Mulder that really dragged me in to the depths of the unknown. He was the one that made me question our existence and to look for signs everywhere. I didn't care that they weren't on the cover of teen people, or that his hair didn't wisp like JTT (in case you didn't know, that's Jonathan Taylor Thomas), this was a man's man, with a gun, and a badge! I was going to join the FBI and find this man, and together we would gather the evidence to prove once and for all that the existence of aliens is here!!! And then after we would settle down on Catalina Island and have geeky FBI babies. I had to settle for the X-Files special edition barbie dolls. But I want to believe.
ASOS
Let me tell you, if you don't know ASOS, you don't actually know Game of Thrones. And if you only know Game of Thrones through HBO, that's ok, but shut the fuck up, because you don't actually know shit. You don't know what it is to sit there, at 16 years old, and cry yourself to sleep because the hero of the hour just had his head chopped off in front of everyone. You didn't lay awake at night wondering why George hates you so fucking much, why he chooses to pick off those people (and they are people, not just characters) and leave you there in a vat of tears, your heart in your throat, compounded with a loss of appetite. I do want to take this time to thank my friend for introducing me to the series and essentially making me the most annoying girl that my boyfriend has ever had to endure. Thanks for letting me geek out on you babe. And quite honestly, I am grateful to HBO...that show is fucking amazing.
History
I spent my Senior year perched on a tree in the quad of my high school, or in the corner of the media center reading about Henry Rex (VIII) and his marital conquests. Why? Because he was bad ass whose dick prompted a religious reformation and broke ties with the Pope. He was also a bad ass because the guy married six times...six times!!! I believe that number can only be rivaled by Elizabeth Taylor, who conincidentally was married to Richard Burton (twice), who played the role of Henry in "Anne of the Thousand Days". But now I have gone off on a tangent.
Lets not forget Schindler's List and the impact it made on my historical brain. Ralph Fiennes in a SS uniform. Holy shit...I was sold. I had to know everything and anything about World War II, Germany, the SS, Hitler, genocide...my world had become endless, a vast canvas of lives and events that had all come before me. I had to learn of them all. I had to know them, their speech, their dress, their friends. I devoured each sentence and voraciously searched for the next chapter. I still do.
It doesn't stop there. Each event that passes I somehow tie in to fascism and fanaticism. My references to the wars, great or civil, sometimes are too much for my listener to comprehend. Many a time I have gotten the "here we go again the with nazis" or "the romanovs are dead".
But those that know me and love me, and maybe not love me, but know me, will tell you, "that's just her, she really geeks on this shit."
Thursday, August 1, 2013
TT: Yankees vs. Confederates
For those of you unaware...I am a big fan of "Gone with the Wind". Film and Book. My three year old little mind basques in the southern charm and beauty of hoop skirt and pantalet. Now, this movie might be set in the Civil War, but it certainly does not share the true atrocities, or the content for which the United States had decided to turn on each other. To me, and maybe to many, but mostly me, this film was about a southern way of life completely destroyed by those "damn dirty yanks", the scoundrels of the north whose sole purpose was to uproot a tranquil, quiet world. It was not until I wandered in to the history section of Empire Library that I learned about whipping posts and middle passage. As I got older, I felt guilty for rooting for the Confederates. After all, the dashing Clark Gable/Rhett Butler (same man) enlisted at the end of the war, but fought for the South none the less. So naturally I was torn. How I could I choose between the dashing men of the South but still accept the atrocities of the "S" word. Eeeek. So I did what I do as always. I made a list of why Confederates suck, and why Yankees suck.
Enjoy.
Confederates:
1. It's the South.
2. Slavery.
3. The cute Southern accent, its not so cute anymore.
4. They threw a monster hissy fit because they didn't get their way, and they fucking seceded. Wah.
5. The men don't actually look like Leslie Hamilton/Ashley Wilkes and Clark Gable/Rhett Butler, not at all.
6. Gone with the Wind was fiction, Margaret Mitchell lied to us ALL!
7. Jefferson Davis. End point.
Yankees:
1. They tried to kill Leslie Hamilton/Ashley Wilkes and Clark Gable/Rhett Butler.
2. They tried to destroy that beautiful Southern way of life, a world of cavaliers, gone with the wind.
3. They raped and pillaged many of the unmanned homes of the South...those women were not the enemy. Well, I guess they were, sort of, but still. There was no uniform on them.
4. Lincoln was a liar whose last resort was the Emancipation Proclamation. He really did not care if slaves were free. He wasn't a fan of slavery, but rather, at best, ambivalent.
If I was asked which side was the better side, what little semblance of humanity I have left inside of me would always say the North. Slavery was deplorable, an institution that remains alive in the world today. It's disgusting and barbaric.
On a lighter note, I always wanted to be the Mexican Scarlett O'Hara.
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Enjoy.
Confederates:
1. It's the South.
2. Slavery.
3. The cute Southern accent, its not so cute anymore.
4. They threw a monster hissy fit because they didn't get their way, and they fucking seceded. Wah.
5. The men don't actually look like Leslie Hamilton/Ashley Wilkes and Clark Gable/Rhett Butler, not at all.
6. Gone with the Wind was fiction, Margaret Mitchell lied to us ALL!
7. Jefferson Davis. End point.
Yankees:
1. They tried to kill Leslie Hamilton/Ashley Wilkes and Clark Gable/Rhett Butler.
2. They tried to destroy that beautiful Southern way of life, a world of cavaliers, gone with the wind.
3. They raped and pillaged many of the unmanned homes of the South...those women were not the enemy. Well, I guess they were, sort of, but still. There was no uniform on them.
4. Lincoln was a liar whose last resort was the Emancipation Proclamation. He really did not care if slaves were free. He wasn't a fan of slavery, but rather, at best, ambivalent.
If I was asked which side was the better side, what little semblance of humanity I have left inside of me would always say the North. Slavery was deplorable, an institution that remains alive in the world today. It's disgusting and barbaric.
On a lighter note, I always wanted to be the Mexican Scarlett O'Hara.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Ode to Canelo v. Mayweather.
September, you are much too far for me.
I long to see those heavy arms as they smash in to the face of the one I loath.
"Hit him, kill him", I yell as my hero of the flat screen lunges towards the king of pomp and arrogance. The dip splattered across my chin, a chip left crushed among the sea of unwashed rug.
The pre-fights, oh how they drag on. Those men who dare to call themselves fighters, mere pansies tap dancing in the ring.
Come to me September 14, come to me as I host an early Mexican Independence day party.
Come to me as I eagerly watch that beautiful Guadalajaran beat the arrogance out of that dick whose father etched his name in boxing history.
I will wait for you. I will read on you. I will watch you.
I long to see those heavy arms as they smash in to the face of the one I loath.
"Hit him, kill him", I yell as my hero of the flat screen lunges towards the king of pomp and arrogance. The dip splattered across my chin, a chip left crushed among the sea of unwashed rug.
The pre-fights, oh how they drag on. Those men who dare to call themselves fighters, mere pansies tap dancing in the ring.
Come to me September 14, come to me as I host an early Mexican Independence day party.
Come to me as I eagerly watch that beautiful Guadalajaran beat the arrogance out of that dick whose father etched his name in boxing history.
I will wait for you. I will read on you. I will watch you.
Monday, July 8, 2013
Because its Monday
After an unintentional hiatus, I decided to come back on to the keyboard and type something that had nothing to do with Immigration Law. So here I am.
After this unintentional hiatus, I have come to appreciate my blog, my rough and unedited writing, and to toot my own horn.
While I was gone, I received the news that someone I love is dying faster than I would want them to go. It's a certainty that we will die, but the time frame is what I hate. This dwelling on time forced me to dwell on this word we use, "love".
I had a grandmother that died almost three years ago. It was sad, a lot of people cried. But in an effort to maintain transparency, I only cried because she was my father's mother. Yes, in the last years of her life I had gotten to know this woman through and through, more so than when she was virilent. But it was not until she was close to the end that she seemed to care on who I was and whether or not I came to see her. It was nice to see her so humbled, and in turn, creating an emphatic and humbling experience within me. But the day she died, it was not sadness for me or for my loss, but a sadness for my father who's complex relationship with his own mother has yet to be unearthed. I often wondered if he was sad, regretful, angry? But I have never dared to ask him. And it was for those reasons that I was sad, that I cried. Not for the love of a woman, but for the selfish answers that I will never have answered, and for the father who couldn't seem to bring himself to visit his own mother in life.
Now it is me that is legitimately crying. This will be the first "family" member that I have loved, and will now lose. Perhaps I have lost this person a long time ago. I had stopped my frequent visits to Texas years ago, and only recently resumed on a vacation a few months ago. A wave of guilt went over me. These were people I loved, that loved me. These were people that were excited to receive my call, and embraced me with the largest hugs I have ever felt. And now one of them is leaving sooner than I would want.
I got to visit with him one last time. He sat up at the table, proudly showed off his PICC Line, and told me how the next time I visited, he was going to kill and grill a goat in my honor. He still looked the same, just slightly slower and with a bit more white hairs. That is how I want to keep it.
You will have to excuse the "dear diary" entry. But its been quite some time and there is so much I want to say. I will have to cut it here. I can't seem to continue without shedding a tear.
After this unintentional hiatus, I have come to appreciate my blog, my rough and unedited writing, and to toot my own horn.
While I was gone, I received the news that someone I love is dying faster than I would want them to go. It's a certainty that we will die, but the time frame is what I hate. This dwelling on time forced me to dwell on this word we use, "love".
I had a grandmother that died almost three years ago. It was sad, a lot of people cried. But in an effort to maintain transparency, I only cried because she was my father's mother. Yes, in the last years of her life I had gotten to know this woman through and through, more so than when she was virilent. But it was not until she was close to the end that she seemed to care on who I was and whether or not I came to see her. It was nice to see her so humbled, and in turn, creating an emphatic and humbling experience within me. But the day she died, it was not sadness for me or for my loss, but a sadness for my father who's complex relationship with his own mother has yet to be unearthed. I often wondered if he was sad, regretful, angry? But I have never dared to ask him. And it was for those reasons that I was sad, that I cried. Not for the love of a woman, but for the selfish answers that I will never have answered, and for the father who couldn't seem to bring himself to visit his own mother in life.
Now it is me that is legitimately crying. This will be the first "family" member that I have loved, and will now lose. Perhaps I have lost this person a long time ago. I had stopped my frequent visits to Texas years ago, and only recently resumed on a vacation a few months ago. A wave of guilt went over me. These were people I loved, that loved me. These were people that were excited to receive my call, and embraced me with the largest hugs I have ever felt. And now one of them is leaving sooner than I would want.
I got to visit with him one last time. He sat up at the table, proudly showed off his PICC Line, and told me how the next time I visited, he was going to kill and grill a goat in my honor. He still looked the same, just slightly slower and with a bit more white hairs. That is how I want to keep it.
You will have to excuse the "dear diary" entry. But its been quite some time and there is so much I want to say. I will have to cut it here. I can't seem to continue without shedding a tear.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
TT: Sigur Ros and Vomit do not mix
I was a late bloomer in many if not all part of my life. I was raised with some awesome people whose musical tastes were all I could hang on to, unbeknowst that I had free will to like my own music.
Last year, for the babe's birthday, I bought him a pair of tickets to go to SF Outside Lands, this awesome music festival located in Golden Gate Park San Francisco. We were excited to see the multiple bands, but more importantly, the fact that we would be seeing Sigur Ros, those beautiful Icelandic voices lulling is in to a dream like state. As the date approached, we realized that the Saturday of the festival was to be the same day as the Mexico vs. Brazil Olympic game, a match for the fucking gold. We had to watch regardless of where we were and what we were doing. I quickly called a bar that we had frequented before to make sure that a) the soccer match would be on their tvs at 630 in the morning, and b) they would be open to the public at 630 in the morning. The bar confirmed both.
We were headed to a bar on a Saturday morning to watch Mexico dominate the shit out of Brazil. Didn't matter to us that we, the Mexicans, were the under dogs, we were pumped and ready to kick some South American Ass. We arrived to a surprisingly busy bar. Everyone was in there already drinking, shouting. The far corner of the bar was decked in yellow, rooting for Brazil. We took a seat at the bar, ordered our breakfast, and tequila shots...yeah, that's right, tequila shots for breakfast.
As fate would decide, Mexico won Olympic Gold (VIVA FUCKING MEXICO). This only meant that my babe and I would continue the shit show and down the tequila. Shots were bought for the bar, the bar bought us shots. It was great...until I hate the wind outside.
We decided it was time to retreat, only that by the time I made it to the street, I was piss drunk...literally. We went outside and I passed out on some patch of San Francisco grass, and then pissed myself. No vomit, just piss. The poor babe, equally as shit faced, but no piss of his own, was left to his own to try and get us a cab back to our hotel, and who drives up...a fucking cop. Luckily for us, we were the tamest of San Francisco's shit show, so rather than cuff us, SFPD hailed a cab for us. As soon as I am in the cab, my German speaking skills kick in. Yeah that's right, German...A Mexican girl is speaking German to the Filipino cabbie...this of course made no sense making the drive to the hotel amusing for me, cumbersome for my babe, and annoying as fuck to the cab driver.
There is a point...
I pass out only to wake a few hours later realizing we have a Sigur Ros show to catch. I pull my shit together, shower, and make it out the door. But the fun didn't end there. As we are getting ready to park the car so that we can catch the shuttle to Golden Gate Park, I puke all over the front seat of my car. In some sick twist of fate, I did not puke on my clothes, but it was all over the fucking car. No time to clean, we get on the bus. And then I puke on the shuttle, on a cloth seat. No big deal, I put some paper towels, mutter some "uh someone puked back there" and get off the bus.
So we make it to Sigur Ros, and its beautiful, only I am STILL FUCKING VOMITING!!! And I am vomiting in a crowd, among the feet of these poor souls who will soon trample me if I don't stop vomiting. It was no matter, we were going to watch these Icelandic angel voices ...
We only lasted ten minutes...I was forced to retreat to greener or pastures, or at least to an area I could vomit without being stepped on...
I am too old for this shit.
Last year, for the babe's birthday, I bought him a pair of tickets to go to SF Outside Lands, this awesome music festival located in Golden Gate Park San Francisco. We were excited to see the multiple bands, but more importantly, the fact that we would be seeing Sigur Ros, those beautiful Icelandic voices lulling is in to a dream like state. As the date approached, we realized that the Saturday of the festival was to be the same day as the Mexico vs. Brazil Olympic game, a match for the fucking gold. We had to watch regardless of where we were and what we were doing. I quickly called a bar that we had frequented before to make sure that a) the soccer match would be on their tvs at 630 in the morning, and b) they would be open to the public at 630 in the morning. The bar confirmed both.
We were headed to a bar on a Saturday morning to watch Mexico dominate the shit out of Brazil. Didn't matter to us that we, the Mexicans, were the under dogs, we were pumped and ready to kick some South American Ass. We arrived to a surprisingly busy bar. Everyone was in there already drinking, shouting. The far corner of the bar was decked in yellow, rooting for Brazil. We took a seat at the bar, ordered our breakfast, and tequila shots...yeah, that's right, tequila shots for breakfast.
As fate would decide, Mexico won Olympic Gold (VIVA FUCKING MEXICO). This only meant that my babe and I would continue the shit show and down the tequila. Shots were bought for the bar, the bar bought us shots. It was great...until I hate the wind outside.
We decided it was time to retreat, only that by the time I made it to the street, I was piss drunk...literally. We went outside and I passed out on some patch of San Francisco grass, and then pissed myself. No vomit, just piss. The poor babe, equally as shit faced, but no piss of his own, was left to his own to try and get us a cab back to our hotel, and who drives up...a fucking cop. Luckily for us, we were the tamest of San Francisco's shit show, so rather than cuff us, SFPD hailed a cab for us. As soon as I am in the cab, my German speaking skills kick in. Yeah that's right, German...A Mexican girl is speaking German to the Filipino cabbie...this of course made no sense making the drive to the hotel amusing for me, cumbersome for my babe, and annoying as fuck to the cab driver.
There is a point...
I pass out only to wake a few hours later realizing we have a Sigur Ros show to catch. I pull my shit together, shower, and make it out the door. But the fun didn't end there. As we are getting ready to park the car so that we can catch the shuttle to Golden Gate Park, I puke all over the front seat of my car. In some sick twist of fate, I did not puke on my clothes, but it was all over the fucking car. No time to clean, we get on the bus. And then I puke on the shuttle, on a cloth seat. No big deal, I put some paper towels, mutter some "uh someone puked back there" and get off the bus.
So we make it to Sigur Ros, and its beautiful, only I am STILL FUCKING VOMITING!!! And I am vomiting in a crowd, among the feet of these poor souls who will soon trample me if I don't stop vomiting. It was no matter, we were going to watch these Icelandic angel voices ...
We only lasted ten minutes...I was forced to retreat to greener or pastures, or at least to an area I could vomit without being stepped on...
I am too old for this shit.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Dissecting a hate site
Recently I stumbled across this site http://shesahomewrecker.com/. Well, stumble I did not, but rather came upon via Facebook.
The site is filled with women dragging their marital indiscretions, detailing their pain at the hands of their man some "nasty whore". Its riddled with written excrement, berating this other woman, publicly shaming them for "wrecking" their home.
Let me preface by stating that I am not excusing the action of women who involve themselves with attached men (or women, whatever the preference). I am however condemning sites like these that solely target the woman. At some point we have been cheated on or have cheated. Its happened. You can admit it or sweep it away. For whatever the reason, we took the asshole back, or we were the asshole and begged them to take us back. But the issue remains that there were two willing participants in order for this to happen.
A dissection of this pitiful site produced the following:
Target words like manipulative, and home wrecker and splattered throughout. If a man is willing to stick his dick in something else after years of a "happy" relationship, then he is a weak shit that was easily manipulate. This man probably believed that Jesus really did turn the water in to vodka and that Santa shit the coal in his stocking Christmas morning. The reality is that it is the weak that are easily manipulated, the unhappy and distressed that welcome such destruction. Its an excuse to leave, to create a conflict, a passage to exit. Its the thrill and drama in an otherwise considered mundane life.
Terms like "on a break". I had a field day with this one. A break is a break up. If you want to fuck around and get back together after, then just say so. If you need some space, and a few days to be with your friends, then just say that, but fuck off with the break. Breaks happen in high school in between periods, they should not be happening in over 21 relationships. Break the fuck up already. You were not on a break. You were on a "hey I am going to fuck this bitch, and grind on this guy, but there is still a chance we are going to fuck around together in the future so make we don't find out about it...bitch."
Too often the descriptions started with "my guy was calling this girl, but she was the one that wrecked my home because he was with me". Oh my my my. Mi amorcitos, you are so deluded. There was a hard lesson I once learned - they were never yours, they were never with you. They were just there. The fact remains is that the commitment was made between you and the significant other, not you, him/her, and the third party love triangle. You are responsible to the feelings and commitment, not this random third party. Your heart was in your partners hands, he/she was the one to fuck things up, not this "other" person. "Other" person was not in a relationship with you, they do not owe you anything. Your significant other did.
Ladies, don't be pendejas. We are better than this. Yes, we are woman, we are human, thus subject to petulance and insecurity. We have all made mistakes, impulsive choices, and emotional decisions. But we are women. We all struggle. Don't do this to each other. Nothing that was beautiful and sacred was ever wrecked by this one person. She was one person, with so little power that was given to her disposal.
The internet has some scary shit out there.
Disclaimer: May I note that I am not ok with cheating. I am not ok with being in this immense amount of pain. I empathise wholeheartedly and feel that the anger is justified. I am just opposed to shaming sites such us this. There is usually so much more to these stories, and rather than tearing women down, and splattering them for anyone with an internet connection to see, we should be building up our own self esteem. I never ever mean to hurt anyone with my posts.
The site is filled with women dragging their marital indiscretions, detailing their pain at the hands of their man some "nasty whore". Its riddled with written excrement, berating this other woman, publicly shaming them for "wrecking" their home.
Let me preface by stating that I am not excusing the action of women who involve themselves with attached men (or women, whatever the preference). I am however condemning sites like these that solely target the woman. At some point we have been cheated on or have cheated. Its happened. You can admit it or sweep it away. For whatever the reason, we took the asshole back, or we were the asshole and begged them to take us back. But the issue remains that there were two willing participants in order for this to happen.
A dissection of this pitiful site produced the following:
Target words like manipulative, and home wrecker and splattered throughout. If a man is willing to stick his dick in something else after years of a "happy" relationship, then he is a weak shit that was easily manipulate. This man probably believed that Jesus really did turn the water in to vodka and that Santa shit the coal in his stocking Christmas morning. The reality is that it is the weak that are easily manipulated, the unhappy and distressed that welcome such destruction. Its an excuse to leave, to create a conflict, a passage to exit. Its the thrill and drama in an otherwise considered mundane life.
Terms like "on a break". I had a field day with this one. A break is a break up. If you want to fuck around and get back together after, then just say so. If you need some space, and a few days to be with your friends, then just say that, but fuck off with the break. Breaks happen in high school in between periods, they should not be happening in over 21 relationships. Break the fuck up already. You were not on a break. You were on a "hey I am going to fuck this bitch, and grind on this guy, but there is still a chance we are going to fuck around together in the future so make we don't find out about it...bitch."
Too often the descriptions started with "my guy was calling this girl, but she was the one that wrecked my home because he was with me". Oh my my my. Mi amorcitos, you are so deluded. There was a hard lesson I once learned - they were never yours, they were never with you. They were just there. The fact remains is that the commitment was made between you and the significant other, not you, him/her, and the third party love triangle. You are responsible to the feelings and commitment, not this random third party. Your heart was in your partners hands, he/she was the one to fuck things up, not this "other" person. "Other" person was not in a relationship with you, they do not owe you anything. Your significant other did.
Ladies, don't be pendejas. We are better than this. Yes, we are woman, we are human, thus subject to petulance and insecurity. We have all made mistakes, impulsive choices, and emotional decisions. But we are women. We all struggle. Don't do this to each other. Nothing that was beautiful and sacred was ever wrecked by this one person. She was one person, with so little power that was given to her disposal.
The internet has some scary shit out there.
Disclaimer: May I note that I am not ok with cheating. I am not ok with being in this immense amount of pain. I empathise wholeheartedly and feel that the anger is justified. I am just opposed to shaming sites such us this. There is usually so much more to these stories, and rather than tearing women down, and splattering them for anyone with an internet connection to see, we should be building up our own self esteem. I never ever mean to hurt anyone with my posts.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Antonio
I tell anyone that will listen so many things about you.
I tell them how you loved to dance, that my first memories are of you in the kitchen doing the twist, and carrying me to the tunes of Fats Domino and Ramon Ayala. You still tap those feet despite using a cane and the walker.
I whistle for the babe, the same way you whistled at my mom.
I repeat the story of you and my Padrino, that night before his son's wedding in Mexico. I tell them of how drunk you both were, the rose that you bought, or maybe it was my Padrino, and the Mariachi serenade you sang to each other. I laugh at how you both were too hungover to have any drinks at the wedding.
I talk about the way I am more your daughter, that I took after you, despite you not being my biological father.
I describe the days at the ranch, the animals that we had, the gun that you taught me to shoot.
I boast of the bowling trophies, and how you made me a mini bowling practice set in the backyard so that I could be just you. I still remember the little ruby red ball with my initials that matched your big red bowling ball.
I describe the morning breakfasts at the bowling lane diner, how we would take our own cloth napkins, leaving them stained with ketchup. Remember how we giggled when we gave them to mom to wash, how irritated she would be with us.
I boast of the bowling trophies, and how you made me a mini bowling practice set in the backyard so that I could be just you. I still remember the little ruby red ball with my initials that matched your big red bowling ball.
I describe the morning breakfasts at the bowling lane diner, how we would take our own cloth napkins, leaving them stained with ketchup. Remember how we giggled when we gave them to mom to wash, how irritated she would be with us.
I laugh at the days you were trying to teach me how to drive, and remind myself of the day you taught me to ride that purple bike.
I tell them how lucky I am that I got to call you dad, that I got you as my father in the best time of your life.
I remind them all, the friends, the readers, the followers on twitter, that you survived that Christmas day. That you will remain my dad for many years to come, that you are a bull, a giant of a man.
I tell them you are my dad.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
TT: Freshman Year...the College Edition
I liked school. No...that is all wrong. I fucking loved school. On the last day of second grade, I fucking cried because it was over and I had to go on summer break...I FUCKING CRIED. There was seldom a time or a year that I did not enjoy. I mean, I had my awkward 7th grade were the boobs hadn't budded in yet, but the hormones were starting to blossom. And then the awful junior year of high school where I shit started and love triangled the shit out of my life. But other than that...school was awesome, I got good grades, I buttered up my teachers, my parents were satisfied. But as always, there is the one year that stood the test of time, and it will always be the best year.
Because I was a late bloomer in certain aspects of my life, I didn't drive all through high school. But I did get my license on my 18th birthday, making that year, and my freshman year of college fucking awesome.
I stayed local and started my college education at a junior college. It was roughly a twenty minute drive from my house, and I had Fridays off. So now I am going to list all of the reasons that Freshman year of college were awesome, whether its correlated or not.
1. My tummy was little and my boobies were huge.
2. I saw Bad Religion, Anti Flag, and Flogging Molly all in one sitting.
3. I had straight A's and continued to be the teacher's darling.
4. I lived in my uncle's basement giving me a modicum of freedom (despite my parents living in the house next door and asking a million questions at all times)
5. I went to Hawaii and wore this amazing two piece that put most bitches to shame.
6. I had a car...
7. I became godmother to the coolest kid ever.
8. I drove to all over the Bay Area watching amazing local and not so local bands. It was awesome.
9. I went in to my first club, PopScene, in San Francisco. Not so cool. But still a good experience.
10. I met people from all over the world in classes I never thought I would be interested to take.
I was older but still very young. I was naive and eager to explore. It was that cusp in life, where you jump off adolescence and begin to take on adulthood. It was the best year.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RPzGNTMt9TE
Because I was a late bloomer in certain aspects of my life, I didn't drive all through high school. But I did get my license on my 18th birthday, making that year, and my freshman year of college fucking awesome.
I stayed local and started my college education at a junior college. It was roughly a twenty minute drive from my house, and I had Fridays off. So now I am going to list all of the reasons that Freshman year of college were awesome, whether its correlated or not.
1. My tummy was little and my boobies were huge.
2. I saw Bad Religion, Anti Flag, and Flogging Molly all in one sitting.
3. I had straight A's and continued to be the teacher's darling.
4. I lived in my uncle's basement giving me a modicum of freedom (despite my parents living in the house next door and asking a million questions at all times)
5. I went to Hawaii and wore this amazing two piece that put most bitches to shame.
6. I had a car...
7. I became godmother to the coolest kid ever.
8. I drove to all over the Bay Area watching amazing local and not so local bands. It was awesome.
9. I went in to my first club, PopScene, in San Francisco. Not so cool. But still a good experience.
10. I met people from all over the world in classes I never thought I would be interested to take.
I was older but still very young. I was naive and eager to explore. It was that cusp in life, where you jump off adolescence and begin to take on adulthood. It was the best year.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RPzGNTMt9TE
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Paternity Test Redux
I have a father, his name is Antonio. He is in his seventies, slow to walk, and seldom drinks. I have a father, he is actually my grandfather. But this post is not for that great father. This post is for the other man, the man who calls himself a father because his pants come off and biology takes over. This is for you.
PATERNITY TEST
“You’re beautiful,” was the phrase in his electronic reply,
A revelation shaped from my centimeter sized profile picture.
My computer screen blinded by a morning August sun,
Twenty plus years of search on a social network forum.
Tears flooded my spectacles as I reread the line,
“please call, I want to know you.”
I questioned the moment,
a child searching for a biological connection,
was he only a click away?
The resemblance of my half oddly shaped nose and slight almond eyes
met the gaze of his out dated photos,
glorified snapshots of a boxing profession that never took off.
My heritage semi legitimized.
The fingers fumbled,
misdialing until I managed the correct sequence.
An awkward, “hey, how are you?” as we painfully attempted small talk.
The revelation of siblings, aunts,
and a grandmother mere minutes away,
was more than I could handle for a casual Saturday afternoon.
As conversation progressed, so too did anxiety.
A feeling of “oh shit, what did I do?” as he continued to speak.
Quick to blame a single teenage mother,
Along with a whole network of maternal kin.
He digs in to the village of family that nurtured my existence.
It would not be a “Maury” segment,
but neither would it be a sentimental “Oprah” moment.
His speech was slurred as he forgets to ask me questions.
He carried on his conversation much like he carried on his parenting,
As if I wasn’t there.
A continual dialogue of finger pointing ensues,
He says, “You need to know why I stayed away”,
Attempting to tell me who he is.
A boxer, a diabetic…an asshole
A revelation shaped from my centimeter sized profile picture.
My computer screen blinded by a morning August sun,
Twenty plus years of search on a social network forum.
Tears flooded my spectacles as I reread the line,
“please call, I want to know you.”
I questioned the moment,
a child searching for a biological connection,
was he only a click away?
The resemblance of my half oddly shaped nose and slight almond eyes
met the gaze of his out dated photos,
glorified snapshots of a boxing profession that never took off.
My heritage semi legitimized.
The fingers fumbled,
misdialing until I managed the correct sequence.
An awkward, “hey, how are you?” as we painfully attempted small talk.
The revelation of siblings, aunts,
and a grandmother mere minutes away,
was more than I could handle for a casual Saturday afternoon.
As conversation progressed, so too did anxiety.
A feeling of “oh shit, what did I do?” as he continued to speak.
Quick to blame a single teenage mother,
Along with a whole network of maternal kin.
He digs in to the village of family that nurtured my existence.
It would not be a “Maury” segment,
but neither would it be a sentimental “Oprah” moment.
His speech was slurred as he forgets to ask me questions.
He carried on his conversation much like he carried on his parenting,
As if I wasn’t there.
A continual dialogue of finger pointing ensues,
He says, “You need to know why I stayed away”,
Attempting to tell me who he is.
A boxer, a diabetic…an asshole
Monday, June 3, 2013
Travel Tuesday: Bathrooms in Mexico
It was suggested to me by Running Mama to start a Travel Tuesday entry on my blog where I save the best of the traveling stories for that particular day. Since I am rotten at organizing my thoughts and stories, I couldn't help but jump on the suggestion...so here it goes.
It was my good fortune that I was invited to join my aunt and uncle on their annual drive to my uncle's home town of Curimeo, Michoacan Mexico, December of 2011. As it turns out...regardless of where...I love to travel, and a road trip in to Mexico was an experience for the bucket list. I have visited Mexico many times before, and with the exception of one trip to Chichen Itza, my trips were typically in to small towns, immersing in to the everyday culture. So when I was told that I would be hitting up cities and towns on my three day drive, places I had yet to see, I was ecstatic. Not to mention that I would be staying in a very small town once arriving...I thought the experience would be excellent fodder for a book that I will never write.
Being the small town that it is, Curimeo has roads that were barely wide enough for the Texas size truck we had, but we said fuck it. Upon arrival in to the town, my first site was the guy with a tequila in one hand, and the reins of his horse in the other. I thought, yes, this is true Mexico. It was great and fucking inspiring. I wanted to ride a horse and drink my tequila at the same time. One fucking day...
My uncle and aunt are building a house in this town. But because this town is so small we would have to go two towns over to buy materials for its construction. So one day while we were running errands, we decide to have a Michoacan style torta ahogada. Now for you non mexi's, torta ahogadas are a Jalisco delicacy, not a Michocan one. But I said fuck it, and ate one anyway at the local eatery. Almost immediately I felt the rumble...a slight stirring in my lower bowels, a dance upon my intestines. We get in the truck and descend down towards home base.
It was about half way in to the truck ride that I thought, shit...I am about to shit. I turn to my aunt and say, "Tia, I have to go, get my ass back to the house." I was clenching with all of my might but I knew that clench could hold out for so long. I had to go in the worst way. This "going" was going to be fucking epic too. So I turn to my aunt again and say "get me to the fucking house". Now, because we had taken the three day road trip down to Mexico, we had equipped the car with rolls of toilet paper, in case we had to stop and take a piss along the road. I had never factored in taking a shit along the road. So my aunt, fully aware of the toilet paper availability, pulls the truck over...on a driveway...with some random home only fifty yards away, and says to me "just go here". Now at this point my ass was in so much pain. It was holding back the literal shit storm ready to reign over this poor souls driveway. I will be honest, the prospect of relief was a moment of euphoria for me. But no, the thought of my ass spewing over someone's driveway was too much to bare, and the fact that this was broad fucking daylight on a road that was traveled often fucking enough to catch me shitting. I climb back and clench so much harder...
The home that was under construction was located at the entrance of Curimeo, and therefore would be one of the first houses driving in to town. I ask her to stop at their house, the one that was under construction. With a chuckle, Tia tells me "There is no running water, we have to go to your uncle's mother's house." FML. We continue to drive in to the town, you know, the one with the narrow fucking streets. Well on this particular day, some asshole decided to have a party and shut the one fucking street down...the one street. We had to go around, park a Mexican block away. I didn't even let her stop the truck, I jumped off and ran towards the house, tripping over the cobblestone and running through the tape that shut down the streets....
I didn't exactly make it....I am not the most graceful traveler...
It was my good fortune that I was invited to join my aunt and uncle on their annual drive to my uncle's home town of Curimeo, Michoacan Mexico, December of 2011. As it turns out...regardless of where...I love to travel, and a road trip in to Mexico was an experience for the bucket list. I have visited Mexico many times before, and with the exception of one trip to Chichen Itza, my trips were typically in to small towns, immersing in to the everyday culture. So when I was told that I would be hitting up cities and towns on my three day drive, places I had yet to see, I was ecstatic. Not to mention that I would be staying in a very small town once arriving...I thought the experience would be excellent fodder for a book that I will never write.
Being the small town that it is, Curimeo has roads that were barely wide enough for the Texas size truck we had, but we said fuck it. Upon arrival in to the town, my first site was the guy with a tequila in one hand, and the reins of his horse in the other. I thought, yes, this is true Mexico. It was great and fucking inspiring. I wanted to ride a horse and drink my tequila at the same time. One fucking day...
My uncle and aunt are building a house in this town. But because this town is so small we would have to go two towns over to buy materials for its construction. So one day while we were running errands, we decide to have a Michoacan style torta ahogada. Now for you non mexi's, torta ahogadas are a Jalisco delicacy, not a Michocan one. But I said fuck it, and ate one anyway at the local eatery. Almost immediately I felt the rumble...a slight stirring in my lower bowels, a dance upon my intestines. We get in the truck and descend down towards home base.
It was about half way in to the truck ride that I thought, shit...I am about to shit. I turn to my aunt and say, "Tia, I have to go, get my ass back to the house." I was clenching with all of my might but I knew that clench could hold out for so long. I had to go in the worst way. This "going" was going to be fucking epic too. So I turn to my aunt again and say "get me to the fucking house". Now, because we had taken the three day road trip down to Mexico, we had equipped the car with rolls of toilet paper, in case we had to stop and take a piss along the road. I had never factored in taking a shit along the road. So my aunt, fully aware of the toilet paper availability, pulls the truck over...on a driveway...with some random home only fifty yards away, and says to me "just go here". Now at this point my ass was in so much pain. It was holding back the literal shit storm ready to reign over this poor souls driveway. I will be honest, the prospect of relief was a moment of euphoria for me. But no, the thought of my ass spewing over someone's driveway was too much to bare, and the fact that this was broad fucking daylight on a road that was traveled often fucking enough to catch me shitting. I climb back and clench so much harder...
The home that was under construction was located at the entrance of Curimeo, and therefore would be one of the first houses driving in to town. I ask her to stop at their house, the one that was under construction. With a chuckle, Tia tells me "There is no running water, we have to go to your uncle's mother's house." FML. We continue to drive in to the town, you know, the one with the narrow fucking streets. Well on this particular day, some asshole decided to have a party and shut the one fucking street down...the one street. We had to go around, park a Mexican block away. I didn't even let her stop the truck, I jumped off and ran towards the house, tripping over the cobblestone and running through the tape that shut down the streets....
I didn't exactly make it....I am not the most graceful traveler...
Thursday, May 30, 2013
TT: Bat Shit Crazy
Ask me what drives me crazy and I will answer easy enough...the word "crazy" drives my crazy.
"Why?", asked the gentle reader. I will tell you why...
Crazy is a dismissive term for a greater underlying issue. Crazy is when you don't know what is wrong so its labeled as such and tucked away.
Crazy are what women are labeled when they cry uncontrollably after giving birth, unable to bond with their newborn.
Crazy is the mother who hasn't slept for days and snaps at her kids.
Crazy is the word used when you are overwhelmed, and tears stream down your face.
Crazy is Jonestown.
Crazy is Hitler, and his years of occupation. It's not like the European powers ALLOWED him in to the Sudetenlands, oh no, he is just crazy...all by himself.
Crazy is the guy who had copious access to weapons, and shot up a school.
Crazy is the teenage mom who just wanted to feel like a teenager again and leaves her baby with her ten year old brother to babysit.
Crazy is the veteran babbling derogatory terms like "zipperhead" to himself on First and Santa Clara.
Crazy is the person who doesn't agree with your opinion, and therefore is clearly wrong on everything in life...fucker must be crazy.
Crazy is a label for something we are not educated on, and something we do not understand. It's for the explanations that we can't conceive. And I am sure many will say that this post is crazy.
Yes, this word, CRAZY, it drives me fucking crazy.
"Why?", asked the gentle reader. I will tell you why...
Crazy is a dismissive term for a greater underlying issue. Crazy is when you don't know what is wrong so its labeled as such and tucked away.
Crazy are what women are labeled when they cry uncontrollably after giving birth, unable to bond with their newborn.
Crazy is the mother who hasn't slept for days and snaps at her kids.
Crazy is the word used when you are overwhelmed, and tears stream down your face.
Crazy is Jonestown.
Crazy is Hitler, and his years of occupation. It's not like the European powers ALLOWED him in to the Sudetenlands, oh no, he is just crazy...all by himself.
Crazy is the guy who had copious access to weapons, and shot up a school.
Crazy is the teenage mom who just wanted to feel like a teenager again and leaves her baby with her ten year old brother to babysit.
Crazy is the veteran babbling derogatory terms like "zipperhead" to himself on First and Santa Clara.
Crazy is the person who doesn't agree with your opinion, and therefore is clearly wrong on everything in life...fucker must be crazy.
Crazy is a label for something we are not educated on, and something we do not understand. It's for the explanations that we can't conceive. And I am sure many will say that this post is crazy.
Yes, this word, CRAZY, it drives me fucking crazy.
Friday, May 24, 2013
Do's and Do not's - Facebook Edition
Don't ever search for a birth parent on Facebook...EVER.
You end up with a gout riddled ex boxer clinging on to his glory days that were over before you could say "vegas uber cunt grabber". He'll expect you to call him dad and possibly help him out since you know, he donated sperm to create you, now you need to pay up...When you don't, he will say that he has kids all over the U.S., and he loves every one of them despite not having relationships with any of them, and then will tell you he could go to any one of them to take care of him...good luck with that douche.
Then you'll end up with his family. His mother will be this lizard looking woman who will try to make disparaging remarks about your birth mother, even though she had never met her. Then she'll question you as to why you are not married and having kids by the age of 25, since all of her other ghetto grand kids were knocked up and well established with babies by the time they crossed the graduation stage of high school. Her exact words will be "are you broken"? Thanks biological grandmother.
Your half sibling will ask you for money because you know, its your duty as a sister. They'll call you in the middle of the night because they got in to an argument and need to be picked up from some seedy part of town...and expect you to be the one to do it...since you know..."we are family". If you are dumb enough...you'll fucking do it.
Your other half sibling will give you shit for not accepting her with open arms and loving her the way you love the people you were raised with. She'll threaten to throw you off her Facebook and cut ties with you forever, to which you reply, "bring it the fuck on, cow".
By the time its all over, two years have passed and you have changed your number to hide from these people. YOu'll think you were raped by the "Lifetime" Movie Channel. And you'll delete your Facebook for a time, because fuck that ordeal was exhausting.
Do get a Facebook.
Don't look up a biological parent on Facebook.
You end up with a gout riddled ex boxer clinging on to his glory days that were over before you could say "vegas uber cunt grabber". He'll expect you to call him dad and possibly help him out since you know, he donated sperm to create you, now you need to pay up...When you don't, he will say that he has kids all over the U.S., and he loves every one of them despite not having relationships with any of them, and then will tell you he could go to any one of them to take care of him...good luck with that douche.
Then you'll end up with his family. His mother will be this lizard looking woman who will try to make disparaging remarks about your birth mother, even though she had never met her. Then she'll question you as to why you are not married and having kids by the age of 25, since all of her other ghetto grand kids were knocked up and well established with babies by the time they crossed the graduation stage of high school. Her exact words will be "are you broken"? Thanks biological grandmother.
Your half sibling will ask you for money because you know, its your duty as a sister. They'll call you in the middle of the night because they got in to an argument and need to be picked up from some seedy part of town...and expect you to be the one to do it...since you know..."we are family". If you are dumb enough...you'll fucking do it.
Your other half sibling will give you shit for not accepting her with open arms and loving her the way you love the people you were raised with. She'll threaten to throw you off her Facebook and cut ties with you forever, to which you reply, "bring it the fuck on, cow".
By the time its all over, two years have passed and you have changed your number to hide from these people. YOu'll think you were raped by the "Lifetime" Movie Channel. And you'll delete your Facebook for a time, because fuck that ordeal was exhausting.
Do get a Facebook.
Don't look up a biological parent on Facebook.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Subjective Evil
As my good friend and confidant Fox Mulder once said: I want to believe.
No, the reference is not for something supernatural...or maybe it should be considered super natural. But I want to believe that there is no such thing as evil, that human beings are born good, do good, manifest good. I want to believe that evil is by product of circumstance, and not gene that is mutated and inherited.
If you grew up religious you were taught that evil is the counter part to God's beauty and greatness. If you are not religious, evil is the face plastered among God's soldiers as they sacked Rome, desecrated temples, and conquered lands in the name of the Lord.
If you are an American, evil is a dark skinned, turban wearing asshole that flew a plane in to the towers. If you are a black American, evil is the white police man who shot Oscar Grant at the Bart Station. If you are a mexican american, evil is the politicians that call your mother illegal and tell her that despite years of back breaking service, bearing children and raising them American, paying her taxes, this is not her home and she should go back from where she came from.
To a mother, evil is the guy that raped your children and left them for dead. To the rapist's mother, evil is the father that raped her son for years and made him in to a monster. To the rapist, evil is his mother who didn't stop it.
Where does evil begin, and where does it end. It's scary to wonder where it begins, because it means that we have no way to identify. Evil takes the forms of smiles, hugs, marriages, family, politics, music, and faith.
I want to believe we were all born good.
*Disclaimer: I do not believe that anyone wearing a turban, or brown skinned is evil. I do not believe that police men and politician are evil. However, we do live in a society where people openly believe this. I hope you can take it as this: our perceptions of evil will always depend on our circumstance. Evil is subjective, hardly every objective.
No, the reference is not for something supernatural...or maybe it should be considered super natural. But I want to believe that there is no such thing as evil, that human beings are born good, do good, manifest good. I want to believe that evil is by product of circumstance, and not gene that is mutated and inherited.
If you grew up religious you were taught that evil is the counter part to God's beauty and greatness. If you are not religious, evil is the face plastered among God's soldiers as they sacked Rome, desecrated temples, and conquered lands in the name of the Lord.
If you are an American, evil is a dark skinned, turban wearing asshole that flew a plane in to the towers. If you are a black American, evil is the white police man who shot Oscar Grant at the Bart Station. If you are a mexican american, evil is the politicians that call your mother illegal and tell her that despite years of back breaking service, bearing children and raising them American, paying her taxes, this is not her home and she should go back from where she came from.
To a mother, evil is the guy that raped your children and left them for dead. To the rapist's mother, evil is the father that raped her son for years and made him in to a monster. To the rapist, evil is his mother who didn't stop it.
Where does evil begin, and where does it end. It's scary to wonder where it begins, because it means that we have no way to identify. Evil takes the forms of smiles, hugs, marriages, family, politics, music, and faith.
I want to believe we were all born good.
*Disclaimer: I do not believe that anyone wearing a turban, or brown skinned is evil. I do not believe that police men and politician are evil. However, we do live in a society where people openly believe this. I hope you can take it as this: our perceptions of evil will always depend on our circumstance. Evil is subjective, hardly every objective.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Bastard of Bolton
In junior year of high school, my friend introduced me to the Song of Ice and Fire Series. I will try not to be a snob and say something like "you mere mortals may know this as the hit HBO series of Game of Thrones". But I am not going to make promises. Since the age of 17, I have been voraciously reading these books, devouring the essence and rage entrapped in the pages created from the brain of George RR Martin. I have created email monikers with "myrcella" and passwords with "housestark". I convinced myself that my children would be named Arya and Bran, Elia and Tommen.
Then came the day that HBO acquired that rights to make the Book in to a series. I was fucking thrilled. Countless conversations regarding adapting the book in to a movie had been etched in to the ears of so many that were willing to listen. But one thing remained true, there were way too many story lines and characters to fit into three hours of the screen. But this, the series on HBO would allow for characters, language and the major boob fest to play out.
It's been fucking epic. Despite some minor changes, this show is just the right amount of awesome-ness. But I think I may have to take a break...
Last night I dreamt that Ramsay Snow/Bastard of Bolton was torturing my friend's and I...by forcing us to work at Kaiser Permanente...and the only way I woke myself up from the dream was to scream loudly into my boyfriend's ear..."I'm going to fucking kill myself". I imagined me saying it in a demonic voice when he woke to told me that I freaked the fuck out of him.
I think I need a little break from George RR Martin...
Friday, May 17, 2013
Margarita in Rome
So let me tell you about this one time when I went to Italy...
Prior to the first trip to Italy, my international travel was comprised of accompanying my parents to family visits in Mexico. My mother's prim and proper upbringing meant that I was attached to her hip while the quebradita (Mexican for dirty dancing) was practiced by the adolecents in the plaza. In high school, over priced schools overseas schools would send their recruits for us traveling dreamers who wished to spend their summers away from their parents. I thought then that some semblance of freedom, to travel without the leash of propriety (my mother) was attainable. For a moment I thought I had heard the whisperings of my mothers acquiesce to a semester in Egypt. As I geared myself to make the final pleadings for an allowance to leave, some assholes decided to put two fucking planes in the Twin Towers. It was the beginning of my senior year. It took less than a moment for my mother to say "ni creas que to voy a dejar en un avion" (Translation: Don't even think you are getting on a plane anytime soon.). My appeals in the form of arguments resembling phrases like "the best time to travel is right after something like this, everything is on lock down and super safer" fell on deaf ears.
It was three years later when an opportunity to vacation to Italy was presented to me. Settling on Rome and the neighboring area, my father and passed me a credit card. I was elated. Rome would be the destination for a nerdy history freak whose study of the bloody battles in the Coliseum were easy Saturday reading, and to top it off with Spaghetti? It all was too fucking fantastic
So there I went to Rome. I am in the mind set that travelers should acclamate the local culture and fully immerse oneself, not standing out like a "stupid American". I studied Italian language and Italian fashion, filling my bright yellow suitcase, with wheels and a handle, with nothing but pastels and mesh over shirts. Have I mentioned that I am a plushy girl? Pastels make me look like a fucking easter egg. So I am in the airport, and because I want to be one of "them", I think, hey, I can do this, I am going to take the trolley, to which I have no map, all the way in to town, get off with my big ass yellow suitcase, and find my hotel..how fucking hard can this be?
The trolley dead ends in the middle of town...and there is no hotel in sight. I am close to some ruins, but if you have ever visited to Rome you will quickly realize that almost everything is a ruin with a modern building on the inside. The trip was in August, a sweltering month for almost every part of the world, Wearing two sizes too small jeans (because tighter is better in Italy) and a knitted pastel blue short sleeve sweater...its fucking 90 degrees at 11 in the morning. I walk along cobble stone streets, all the while wheeling a big ass bag that screams "Tourist". But no, I am convinced I fit right the fuck in. I take a right turn, I take a left. I can't fucking find the Trilussa Hotel. Someone is king enought to point me to the street Trilussa, but he knows nothing about the Trilussa hotel. I hobble down some more, all the while fully conscious of the fact that I am sweating, my crotch is rubbing against the fucking jeans, I am tired, I am hungry, and on the verge of a melt down.
I decide that before the tears commence that I take a seat at this cute little cafe. I waddle in, trying to ensure that I get some breeze towards my crotch. A few weeks prior I turned the ripe age of 21, making me eager to get started on what is to turn in to a long history of drinking. I take the seat at the table closest to the street, and I order the only alcoholic drink I can name, a margarita. I order in spanish because because italian and spanish are the same...right? The waiter smiles, responding in English "sure, I'll bring it right out, and what would you like to drink". I take a breath...I am thirsty and I want my motherfucking alcohol, clearly he had not understood, so I repeat "a margarita". The waiter continues to smile..."I'll bring some water, no gas". I wonder if the no gas comment by the waiter meant he was planning to fart in my water cup.
I took the next few quiet moment to enjoy my surroundings. I had never crossed an ocean by myself, never been so far and removed from my "Pacific Standard Time". Rome is fucking amazing. Despite modernity its history is captured in every stone, every building, and despite the crotch sweat and inability to find the hotel, I was enjoying this non parental adventure. Twenty minutes passed when the waiter came out to my table, with a pizza. I look at the waiter, and back down to my pizza. He is still fucking smiling. I look at the pizza again and before I can look up, the waiter has skipped his happy ass back to his counter. I politely flag him down..."sir, I still haven't received my margarita..."
"Miss this is your margarita, margarita pizza..."
I stammer, and start to cry...why? Because I am a fucking girl, my pants are stuck in my crotch, it's hot, and all I want is my god damn alcohol...I compose myself, explaining that my flight was so long and that I am very tired. I muster in broken italian/spanish "back home a margarita is a cocktail". My waiter, an angel in disguise I would have to assume, who was kind enough to politely and sweetly deal with my emotional vagina bullshit, smiles again, and says, "a bella, I get a you a bellini". That fucking saint got me my drink, and a cab to drive me to my hotel...that was only a block away!
So began my lone travels, as a Stupid (Mexican) American.
Prior to the first trip to Italy, my international travel was comprised of accompanying my parents to family visits in Mexico. My mother's prim and proper upbringing meant that I was attached to her hip while the quebradita (Mexican for dirty dancing) was practiced by the adolecents in the plaza. In high school, over priced schools overseas schools would send their recruits for us traveling dreamers who wished to spend their summers away from their parents. I thought then that some semblance of freedom, to travel without the leash of propriety (my mother) was attainable. For a moment I thought I had heard the whisperings of my mothers acquiesce to a semester in Egypt. As I geared myself to make the final pleadings for an allowance to leave, some assholes decided to put two fucking planes in the Twin Towers. It was the beginning of my senior year. It took less than a moment for my mother to say "ni creas que to voy a dejar en un avion" (Translation: Don't even think you are getting on a plane anytime soon.). My appeals in the form of arguments resembling phrases like "the best time to travel is right after something like this, everything is on lock down and super safer" fell on deaf ears.
It was three years later when an opportunity to vacation to Italy was presented to me. Settling on Rome and the neighboring area, my father and passed me a credit card. I was elated. Rome would be the destination for a nerdy history freak whose study of the bloody battles in the Coliseum were easy Saturday reading, and to top it off with Spaghetti? It all was too fucking fantastic
So there I went to Rome. I am in the mind set that travelers should acclamate the local culture and fully immerse oneself, not standing out like a "stupid American". I studied Italian language and Italian fashion, filling my bright yellow suitcase, with wheels and a handle, with nothing but pastels and mesh over shirts. Have I mentioned that I am a plushy girl? Pastels make me look like a fucking easter egg. So I am in the airport, and because I want to be one of "them", I think, hey, I can do this, I am going to take the trolley, to which I have no map, all the way in to town, get off with my big ass yellow suitcase, and find my hotel..how fucking hard can this be?
The trolley dead ends in the middle of town...and there is no hotel in sight. I am close to some ruins, but if you have ever visited to Rome you will quickly realize that almost everything is a ruin with a modern building on the inside. The trip was in August, a sweltering month for almost every part of the world, Wearing two sizes too small jeans (because tighter is better in Italy) and a knitted pastel blue short sleeve sweater...its fucking 90 degrees at 11 in the morning. I walk along cobble stone streets, all the while wheeling a big ass bag that screams "Tourist". But no, I am convinced I fit right the fuck in. I take a right turn, I take a left. I can't fucking find the Trilussa Hotel. Someone is king enought to point me to the street Trilussa, but he knows nothing about the Trilussa hotel. I hobble down some more, all the while fully conscious of the fact that I am sweating, my crotch is rubbing against the fucking jeans, I am tired, I am hungry, and on the verge of a melt down.
I decide that before the tears commence that I take a seat at this cute little cafe. I waddle in, trying to ensure that I get some breeze towards my crotch. A few weeks prior I turned the ripe age of 21, making me eager to get started on what is to turn in to a long history of drinking. I take the seat at the table closest to the street, and I order the only alcoholic drink I can name, a margarita. I order in spanish because because italian and spanish are the same...right? The waiter smiles, responding in English "sure, I'll bring it right out, and what would you like to drink". I take a breath...I am thirsty and I want my motherfucking alcohol, clearly he had not understood, so I repeat "a margarita". The waiter continues to smile..."I'll bring some water, no gas". I wonder if the no gas comment by the waiter meant he was planning to fart in my water cup.
I took the next few quiet moment to enjoy my surroundings. I had never crossed an ocean by myself, never been so far and removed from my "Pacific Standard Time". Rome is fucking amazing. Despite modernity its history is captured in every stone, every building, and despite the crotch sweat and inability to find the hotel, I was enjoying this non parental adventure. Twenty minutes passed when the waiter came out to my table, with a pizza. I look at the waiter, and back down to my pizza. He is still fucking smiling. I look at the pizza again and before I can look up, the waiter has skipped his happy ass back to his counter. I politely flag him down..."sir, I still haven't received my margarita..."
"Miss this is your margarita, margarita pizza..."
I stammer, and start to cry...why? Because I am a fucking girl, my pants are stuck in my crotch, it's hot, and all I want is my god damn alcohol...I compose myself, explaining that my flight was so long and that I am very tired. I muster in broken italian/spanish "back home a margarita is a cocktail". My waiter, an angel in disguise I would have to assume, who was kind enough to politely and sweetly deal with my emotional vagina bullshit, smiles again, and says, "a bella, I get a you a bellini". That fucking saint got me my drink, and a cab to drive me to my hotel...that was only a block away!
So began my lone travels, as a Stupid (Mexican) American.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
TT: This could take a while
It's Theme Thursday...and boy do I have a grocery lists of things that I am proud of...and its a list because I am a lazy duck today and am not up for formatting a paragraph.
1. Myself...because I am a motherfucking self proclaimed genius...agree with me or not, but deal with it!
2. My musical taste - I can jam out to Siouxsie Sioux while dancing cumbia with the family...my taste is all over the spectrum...except for pop, keep that Britney Spears/Rihanna blasphemy away from me.
3. My book collection, it is a fire hazard, and can potentially get much bigger, but its a nice size and readily available...I love it.
4. My drinking. My boyfriend might be able to win at the chugging competition, but I can out drink almost everyone when it comes to tequila. I don't get crazy, I just get loving, and I can drink it all night. Bring it the fuck on.
5. I can dance mexican folklorico, and whether these nimrods like to admit it or not, I was amazing. I had the feet of an angel, with the grace of a flamingo. My skirtwork was on point, and I look like a god damn authentic rancherita when I am on that dance floor.
6. I am proud of my sister, who after having a rod inserted into her hip, can still rock those stilletos, and manage to make a hospital room look like a vegas nightclub. You rock Chavis.
7. I am proud of my brother, who is about to embark on the AIDS/LIFECYCLE, riding his bike from SF to LA...to cure AIDS.
8. I am proud that I am a college graduate, and semi educated (despite what I said on number 1). I think I have a long road of education ahead of me, but I made it this far, and I am not going to lie, I am still excited for myself.
9. I am proud of my WWII collection, which is mostly a Nazi collection, that consists of a 1939 SS Panzergrad special edition cigarette case, made for those that were stationed in Athens, my 1932, first Edition of Hitlerism, written by Louis Leo Snyder, and my 1942 edition of Mein Kampf. No, I am not a Nazi, I am just fascinated by World War II, its atrocities and how gullible the world can and will be. I have more books...but...you know.
10.This was a really difficult topic for me, despite the joking at the beginning I don't take pride in a whole lot, but I do take pride in my life, my relationship, my family, and my future.
1. Myself...because I am a motherfucking self proclaimed genius...agree with me or not, but deal with it!
2. My musical taste - I can jam out to Siouxsie Sioux while dancing cumbia with the family...my taste is all over the spectrum...except for pop, keep that Britney Spears/Rihanna blasphemy away from me.
3. My book collection, it is a fire hazard, and can potentially get much bigger, but its a nice size and readily available...I love it.
4. My drinking. My boyfriend might be able to win at the chugging competition, but I can out drink almost everyone when it comes to tequila. I don't get crazy, I just get loving, and I can drink it all night. Bring it the fuck on.
5. I can dance mexican folklorico, and whether these nimrods like to admit it or not, I was amazing. I had the feet of an angel, with the grace of a flamingo. My skirtwork was on point, and I look like a god damn authentic rancherita when I am on that dance floor.
6. I am proud of my sister, who after having a rod inserted into her hip, can still rock those stilletos, and manage to make a hospital room look like a vegas nightclub. You rock Chavis.
7. I am proud of my brother, who is about to embark on the AIDS/LIFECYCLE, riding his bike from SF to LA...to cure AIDS.
8. I am proud that I am a college graduate, and semi educated (despite what I said on number 1). I think I have a long road of education ahead of me, but I made it this far, and I am not going to lie, I am still excited for myself.
9. I am proud of my WWII collection, which is mostly a Nazi collection, that consists of a 1939 SS Panzergrad special edition cigarette case, made for those that were stationed in Athens, my 1932, first Edition of Hitlerism, written by Louis Leo Snyder, and my 1942 edition of Mein Kampf. No, I am not a Nazi, I am just fascinated by World War II, its atrocities and how gullible the world can and will be. I have more books...but...you know.
10.This was a really difficult topic for me, despite the joking at the beginning I don't take pride in a whole lot, but I do take pride in my life, my relationship, my family, and my future.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Mama, Mamon, Mamitis
In the Hispanic/Latin culture, there is an epidemic that has plagued the people, nay, men of these lands. I am sure that other cultures may have a similar epidemic, however being a Mexican, it is fucking prevalent and debilitating to many of the men, boys, and potential coupling that could ensue. It is called Mamitis, and to those who have it, we call them Mamon. Now you may have no fucking clue what either of these words mean...probably because a) you don't speak Spanish b) you have never encountered said plague, and or c) your man/ex man/brother/cousin/dad may never have suffered from this umbilical cord disease.
Now I am going to explain exactly what these words mean. And I am going to provide crude and very offensive examples of this disease. But I feel that I must post this disclaimer...read it carefully and don't draw any fucking conclusions...take it for what it is:
1. I am not referring to any one that is in my life today, these examples are from men/boys that I knew years before, and may not have necessarily been in a relationship with, could have just been an acquaintance.
2. I am about to get offensive towards Peruvians. Now if you ask yourself, whats the difference between a Peruvian and a Mexican, my knee jerk reaction would be to say "fuck you". But, geographically, physically, and culturally, there is a huge fucking difference. I do not have a personal vendetta against the Peruvians, I was just once highly annoyed with one and made a greatly offensive comment to that asshole which I am about to share with you. I promise to be as equally offensive to my Mexican people in future posts, if I haven't already.
3. Take it in stride..this post is for fun, not educating, so before you get all up the ass, just chill.
4. I love men who love, respect and honor their mothers. If they treat their mother's in such a manner, chances are they will treat you with the same honors. I can attest to this now. I think there is a balance with family, and I have found the perfect man with the perfect balance.
Now, mamitis is a condition when a grown man has yet to detach from his mother's umbilical cord. this is a very popular phenomenon that goes far beyond the mother land. Every decision, every meal, and every bowel movement is done with the hand holding of his mother. She may at times wipe his ass, make rude, comparison comments to his girlfriend/wife (this has never happened to me...because I am fucking perfect), and get all up in his shit with other woman. He in turn, may compare his girlfriend to his mother, making comments about her cooking, her manner of ironing, and whether or not she is the god damn goddess like his mother. Now his mother may be a fucking saint, but he may just be an asshole with an Oedipal complex, it happens.
I'll give you an example...
I made this giant mistake and had a relationship with a Peruvian. Now this Peruvian, was a little special. I shit you not, he went to his mother's twice a fucking day. Once in the morning, and once at night. Each time picking up his little care package, because god forbid he make himself a fucking sandwich. Now I decided to be nice, and make him dinner. Fuck me right? Well here is how that dinner went...
Sits at dinner table -
Him: whats this?!?!?
Me: What do you mean?
Him: I mean what is this? This isn't how my mom makes food?
Me: I am sorry? What do you mean? I am not understanding?
Him: well its not my mom's, my mom doesn't make food like this, she doesn't use this ingredient, or this ingredient, and she always does this to...
Me: Do you see a fucking tree in my house?
Him: What?
Me: Do...you...see...a...motherfucking tree...in .... my...house??!?!
Him: What is that supposed to mean?
Me: I am not sure if you knew this, but Motherfucker, I am a Mexican...not a Peruvian...my people do not still swing from fucking trees like your people. And take a look at my face...its not your fucking mom's face...and smell that? It's my god damn food and it smells amazing!!!!!!! Call your fucking mom and tell her to set an extra fucking table in the tree!
That was just the tip of the comparisons, and mind you, I was already at my wits with this asshole for continually comparing my body type to a playmate...my tits are real asshole! So I already had some pent up anger...but this incident was the most notable. I wish I was making this up ....
Another time, when I was visiting this one place in another country...I need to be a little vague, I encountered a forty something year old man whose umbilical cord was severely attached and possibly moldy. Now this fucker owned his own house down the street from his mother, but remained living in her house. He would literally walk through the door, drop trouser for his 80 something year old mother to pick up and wash. She made his meals, she rubbed his back. She would sit at his bedside at night and rub down his legs. You all know the Oedipal story right...well I thought I was in the fucking episode of the twilight zone. I pity the rancherita than ends up with that animal.
So "M" is for mamitis.
Now I am going to explain exactly what these words mean. And I am going to provide crude and very offensive examples of this disease. But I feel that I must post this disclaimer...read it carefully and don't draw any fucking conclusions...take it for what it is:
1. I am not referring to any one that is in my life today, these examples are from men/boys that I knew years before, and may not have necessarily been in a relationship with, could have just been an acquaintance.
2. I am about to get offensive towards Peruvians. Now if you ask yourself, whats the difference between a Peruvian and a Mexican, my knee jerk reaction would be to say "fuck you". But, geographically, physically, and culturally, there is a huge fucking difference. I do not have a personal vendetta against the Peruvians, I was just once highly annoyed with one and made a greatly offensive comment to that asshole which I am about to share with you. I promise to be as equally offensive to my Mexican people in future posts, if I haven't already.
3. Take it in stride..this post is for fun, not educating, so before you get all up the ass, just chill.
4. I love men who love, respect and honor their mothers. If they treat their mother's in such a manner, chances are they will treat you with the same honors. I can attest to this now. I think there is a balance with family, and I have found the perfect man with the perfect balance.
Now, mamitis is a condition when a grown man has yet to detach from his mother's umbilical cord. this is a very popular phenomenon that goes far beyond the mother land. Every decision, every meal, and every bowel movement is done with the hand holding of his mother. She may at times wipe his ass, make rude, comparison comments to his girlfriend/wife (this has never happened to me...because I am fucking perfect), and get all up in his shit with other woman. He in turn, may compare his girlfriend to his mother, making comments about her cooking, her manner of ironing, and whether or not she is the god damn goddess like his mother. Now his mother may be a fucking saint, but he may just be an asshole with an Oedipal complex, it happens.
I'll give you an example...
I made this giant mistake and had a relationship with a Peruvian. Now this Peruvian, was a little special. I shit you not, he went to his mother's twice a fucking day. Once in the morning, and once at night. Each time picking up his little care package, because god forbid he make himself a fucking sandwich. Now I decided to be nice, and make him dinner. Fuck me right? Well here is how that dinner went...
Sits at dinner table -
Him: whats this?!?!?
Me: What do you mean?
Him: I mean what is this? This isn't how my mom makes food?
Me: I am sorry? What do you mean? I am not understanding?
Him: well its not my mom's, my mom doesn't make food like this, she doesn't use this ingredient, or this ingredient, and she always does this to...
Me: Do you see a fucking tree in my house?
Him: What?
Me: Do...you...see...a...motherfucking tree...in .... my...house??!?!
Him: What is that supposed to mean?
Me: I am not sure if you knew this, but Motherfucker, I am a Mexican...not a Peruvian...my people do not still swing from fucking trees like your people. And take a look at my face...its not your fucking mom's face...and smell that? It's my god damn food and it smells amazing!!!!!!! Call your fucking mom and tell her to set an extra fucking table in the tree!
That was just the tip of the comparisons, and mind you, I was already at my wits with this asshole for continually comparing my body type to a playmate...my tits are real asshole! So I already had some pent up anger...but this incident was the most notable. I wish I was making this up ....
Another time, when I was visiting this one place in another country...I need to be a little vague, I encountered a forty something year old man whose umbilical cord was severely attached and possibly moldy. Now this fucker owned his own house down the street from his mother, but remained living in her house. He would literally walk through the door, drop trouser for his 80 something year old mother to pick up and wash. She made his meals, she rubbed his back. She would sit at his bedside at night and rub down his legs. You all know the Oedipal story right...well I thought I was in the fucking episode of the twilight zone. I pity the rancherita than ends up with that animal.
So "M" is for mamitis.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
The Good Samaritan
If you were raised religious, then you will most likely have heard the parable of the "Good Samaritan". In short, it is a story as told by Jesus Christ of a Jewish traveler who was beaten, robbed, and left for dead along some road less traveled. Two religious men come across this traveler, a priest and a levite, both shun and avoid, leaving the traveler to rot, to die in a place that was not his own. A Samaritan comes across this nearly dead body.
Now I had to do a little research. I have used the word Samaritan before, but I felt that if I was to use this word today, I needed to know its origin. It was so easy to call someone a Samaritan because they bought me a hot dog when I was a dollar short. But the Samaritans are an ethnoreligious group with close ties to Judaism and claim descent from the Israelites Historically, the Samaritans and the Jews, much like this half dead traveler, are enemies. It would have been logical, and well expected for this Samaritan to leave the dying Jew traveler for the buzzards and flies that had already begun to peck at this man. But he decided to stop and help his ailing "neighbor". It must be understood that for Jesus to tell this story to his would-be audience, would have caused much provocation. His portrayal of a Samaritan would have most certainly shocked his audience, especially in a time that was so riddled with violence and chaos.
This morning an article came out regarding the body of Tamerlan Tsarnev, one of the perpetrator's of the Boston bombings. A much less known fact is that his body had been sitting in some freezer, waiting to be buried. A poor funeral home director had to house this scum's corpse.
The article noted that finding a burial place for this shit head's body to lay for the remainder of eternity, was next to impossible. No community, no open land, waste disposal, wanted to be the keeper's of the rotted flesh whose soul had long disintegrated and turned into a troll. Not a cute pink haired troll either. It was not until, as described in the article, that a "courageous and compassionate individual came forward to provide the assistance needed to properly bury the deceased.”
We are all angry and seething from the devastation caused by the cunts that terrorized the Boston Marathon. Families are one member less, runners and spectators are missing limbs. Some of them may never walk. Some may never be able to even watch a marathon. Any one of us would jump at the opportunity to cut the cock off of these fuckers and jam it down their mother's throat. That would be the easy and logical response. But this one guy, this guy who gave in and buried the soulless fucker, he really was the courageous one, because he had every right to burn the fuck out of the body in the town square. He could have disclosed the location of where the body was interred so that we could all take turns pissing and shitting over his eternal resting spot, making it an open toilet for all. But he quietly buried this shit of a man.
This is not written as an intent to politicize, and certainly not to hurt the feelings of anyone. When tasked to write of a good Samaritan I had thought of the people who had done good deeds their whole life. The people who have given up a seat when someone was tired, who had picked me up from school when I was stranded. The people that give up their personal money and Christmas morning to feed the homeless. The teachers that buy supplies with their own money. And make no mistake, these people should be heralded. But when I read about this one little man, this man who without provocation, stepped forward to do something for someone so reviled, I couldn't help but feel that this man truly embodied the parable as told in the Bible. He did something for someone that he believes to be a disgusting human being. And maybe he didn't do it for him, maybe he did it for the widow and child that were left behind, for the Uncle and the countless others who loved this troll as he was, but not for what he did.
http://www.boston.com/metrodesk/2013/05/09/body-tamerlan-tsarnaev-has-been-buried-undisclosed-location-worcester-police-say/iDpJpGifYzFQwBM71I7PXP/story.html
Now I had to do a little research. I have used the word Samaritan before, but I felt that if I was to use this word today, I needed to know its origin. It was so easy to call someone a Samaritan because they bought me a hot dog when I was a dollar short. But the Samaritans are an ethnoreligious group with close ties to Judaism and claim descent from the Israelites Historically, the Samaritans and the Jews, much like this half dead traveler, are enemies. It would have been logical, and well expected for this Samaritan to leave the dying Jew traveler for the buzzards and flies that had already begun to peck at this man. But he decided to stop and help his ailing "neighbor". It must be understood that for Jesus to tell this story to his would-be audience, would have caused much provocation. His portrayal of a Samaritan would have most certainly shocked his audience, especially in a time that was so riddled with violence and chaos.
This morning an article came out regarding the body of Tamerlan Tsarnev, one of the perpetrator's of the Boston bombings. A much less known fact is that his body had been sitting in some freezer, waiting to be buried. A poor funeral home director had to house this scum's corpse.
The article noted that finding a burial place for this shit head's body to lay for the remainder of eternity, was next to impossible. No community, no open land, waste disposal, wanted to be the keeper's of the rotted flesh whose soul had long disintegrated and turned into a troll. Not a cute pink haired troll either. It was not until, as described in the article, that a "courageous and compassionate individual came forward to provide the assistance needed to properly bury the deceased.”
We are all angry and seething from the devastation caused by the cunts that terrorized the Boston Marathon. Families are one member less, runners and spectators are missing limbs. Some of them may never walk. Some may never be able to even watch a marathon. Any one of us would jump at the opportunity to cut the cock off of these fuckers and jam it down their mother's throat. That would be the easy and logical response. But this one guy, this guy who gave in and buried the soulless fucker, he really was the courageous one, because he had every right to burn the fuck out of the body in the town square. He could have disclosed the location of where the body was interred so that we could all take turns pissing and shitting over his eternal resting spot, making it an open toilet for all. But he quietly buried this shit of a man.
This is not written as an intent to politicize, and certainly not to hurt the feelings of anyone. When tasked to write of a good Samaritan I had thought of the people who had done good deeds their whole life. The people who have given up a seat when someone was tired, who had picked me up from school when I was stranded. The people that give up their personal money and Christmas morning to feed the homeless. The teachers that buy supplies with their own money. And make no mistake, these people should be heralded. But when I read about this one little man, this man who without provocation, stepped forward to do something for someone so reviled, I couldn't help but feel that this man truly embodied the parable as told in the Bible. He did something for someone that he believes to be a disgusting human being. And maybe he didn't do it for him, maybe he did it for the widow and child that were left behind, for the Uncle and the countless others who loved this troll as he was, but not for what he did.
http://www.boston.com/metrodesk/2013/05/09/body-tamerlan-tsarnaev-has-been-buried-undisclosed-location-worcester-police-say/iDpJpGifYzFQwBM71I7PXP/story.html
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Musically Fucked
Rather than tell you the story of some fucked up people, I thought I would give you a playlist of music whose titles of the song contain the word FUCK. Enjoy!
Electric Chairs - Fuck Off
DKs - Too Drunk To Fuck
Peaches - Fuck the Pain Away
The Pains of Being Pure at Heart – “This Love is Fucking Right”
Fuck You (Ode To No One) By The Smashing Pumpkins
'Nazi Punks f-u-c-k off' - by the Dead Kennedys
Tenacious D - Fuck Her Gently
Insane Clown Posse - Fuck The World
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GmFp0I8AZqw
Electric Chairs - Fuck Off
DKs - Too Drunk To Fuck
Peaches - Fuck the Pain Away
The Pains of Being Pure at Heart – “This Love is Fucking Right”
Fuck You (Ode To No One) By The Smashing Pumpkins
'Nazi Punks f-u-c-k off' - by the Dead Kennedys
Tenacious D - Fuck Her Gently
Insane Clown Posse - Fuck The World
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GmFp0I8AZqw
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Beaner
Yeah, that's right, I said the word beaner.
As you may already know...I am Mexican, and I grew up, within the US borders, as VERY Mexican I have the mariachi outfit to prove it. My house spoke primarily Spanish and we ate beans and rice all the time.
We were so entrenched with the Spanish and being Mexican, that I grew up thinking Charlton Heston was a Mexican because our copy of "Ten Commandment's" was dubbed in Spanish...I was not a bright child.
I mean everybody knew that Jesus Christ was a Mexican, look at his beard for Christ's sake. And didn't everybody have goats in their back yard and mariachis come play for their 4th birthday? Did I mention that I was also a brat?
Food was a major item in the house but wasn't it for everybody? You come home, and mom immediately wanted to shovel beans and carne down your throat. "Oh mija, you aren't hungry anymore, here! Let me make you a quesadilla". And if there wasn't a newly killed chicken boiling on the stove, there were always tortillas and beans to eat a plenty. All of this is normal right? All people in the US grew up like this...right?
FUCKING WRONG!
So I also had the advantage of being sent to a Catholic private school, which had one other child who had goats in their backyard, and that fucker was filipino, not a mexican. And my mom wasn't a fan of having other little fuckers, that weren't family kids, in her house. So when I did get permission to invite some of these little shits...this is what they told me...
Him- "you have all those people living in the house? you have goats in the backyard? Dude, you're a beaner"
Me - "oh yeah, thanks. I love beans"
Laughter erupts. I didn't get it.
Later that night, I picked the perfect opportunity (while she was watching Sabado Gigante) to tell my mom about the day. "A'ma, sabias que soy una beaner porque me gustan frijoles" Translation: Mom, did you know I'm a beaner because I love to eat beans....The look on her face was priceless, and the next words out of her mouth were epic! "QUE CHINGADOS DIJISTES?!?!?!" Translation: what the fuck
did you just say?
And that was the day that I learned that the word beaner is derogatory...and that my upbringing was slightly different from some of the other kids.
As you may already know...I am Mexican, and I grew up, within the US borders, as VERY Mexican I have the mariachi outfit to prove it. My house spoke primarily Spanish and we ate beans and rice all the time.
We were so entrenched with the Spanish and being Mexican, that I grew up thinking Charlton Heston was a Mexican because our copy of "Ten Commandment's" was dubbed in Spanish...I was not a bright child.
I mean everybody knew that Jesus Christ was a Mexican, look at his beard for Christ's sake. And didn't everybody have goats in their back yard and mariachis come play for their 4th birthday? Did I mention that I was also a brat?
Food was a major item in the house but wasn't it for everybody? You come home, and mom immediately wanted to shovel beans and carne down your throat. "Oh mija, you aren't hungry anymore, here! Let me make you a quesadilla". And if there wasn't a newly killed chicken boiling on the stove, there were always tortillas and beans to eat a plenty. All of this is normal right? All people in the US grew up like this...right?
FUCKING WRONG!
So I also had the advantage of being sent to a Catholic private school, which had one other child who had goats in their backyard, and that fucker was filipino, not a mexican. And my mom wasn't a fan of having other little fuckers, that weren't family kids, in her house. So when I did get permission to invite some of these little shits...this is what they told me...
Him- "you have all those people living in the house? you have goats in the backyard? Dude, you're a beaner"
Me - "oh yeah, thanks. I love beans"
Laughter erupts. I didn't get it.
Later that night, I picked the perfect opportunity (while she was watching Sabado Gigante) to tell my mom about the day. "A'ma, sabias que soy una beaner porque me gustan frijoles" Translation: Mom, did you know I'm a beaner because I love to eat beans....The look on her face was priceless, and the next words out of her mouth were epic! "QUE CHINGADOS DIJISTES?!?!?!" Translation: what the fuck
And that was the day that I learned that the word beaner is derogatory...and that my upbringing was slightly different from some of the other kids.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
A is for Apostate
I decided to join in the ABC swearing challenge. It's my first line and already I am struggling. But here goes...
A is for Apostate. Apostate, a deflector of religion. It does not have to be specific to religion, but in this case, it is. And here is why...
I was raised a catholic, and I'm Mexican You don't have to be a Catholic to be Mexican, and you don't have to be Mexican to be a Catholic, but in my house, the two went hand in hand. And you will often hear/read my self definition as a cultural Catholic. Customs and culture intertwined with Catholicism, and I am supremely grateful to my mother for forcing me to learn the rosary by heart. Te amo mami.
But here is where my word comes in to play.
Being a Christian/Catholic, there are these values that are thrown around, displayed on American media, raped and distorted for political agendas. Christianity, Jesus, family values are words that are now used to ensure that the interest of conservative political thugs are "protected" and their enemies right's stripped. I had no idea that Christian America was under attack. (SARCASM).
A joke was recently made, a comparison if you will, in regards to the coming out of Tim Tebow as a Christian, and Jason Collins as a gay man. The former was seemingly criticized and told to keep his comments while the latter is hailed as a hero. And it bothers many that the American media had portrayed the two differently. Lets get something straight, we are living in United States, the land of the free worship, as long as its a Christian denomination. Jason Collins' coming out is and will be viewed as heroism so long as the rights of the LGBT community are continually and blatantly oppressed.
And here is why I am an apostate. My beliefs, my orientation, my religion, and my culture, will never supersede the basic, inalienable rights of the citizens of this country. Those religious convictions, they were merely a building frame to the awesome that I am today. Being a good person, a righteous person comes from the relationships, experiences of the years that pass. I do not care what some archaic book says in the first half about smiting the sodomites, because there is a whole lot of bullshit in their about marrying a few and dying over blended cloth. Not to mention that I am a sinner, multiple times over. I have not always honored my mother, and I have wished for things that another person possessed. I love my God, and believes he loves us all, but have also cursed him and asked him "why!?"
So no, I am not a good catholic, I am not a good follower of the church. I am an apostate.
<a href="http://hypnoticbard.blogspot.com/p/swearing-to-z.html" target="_blank"><img src= "http://i1293.photobucket.com/albums/b599/mountaindew711/ABC_zpsef721a16.jpg " /></a>
A is for Apostate. Apostate, a deflector of religion. It does not have to be specific to religion, but in this case, it is. And here is why...
I was raised a catholic, and I'm Mexican You don't have to be a Catholic to be Mexican, and you don't have to be Mexican to be a Catholic, but in my house, the two went hand in hand. And you will often hear/read my self definition as a cultural Catholic. Customs and culture intertwined with Catholicism, and I am supremely grateful to my mother for forcing me to learn the rosary by heart. Te amo mami.
But here is where my word comes in to play.
Being a Christian/Catholic, there are these values that are thrown around, displayed on American media, raped and distorted for political agendas. Christianity, Jesus, family values are words that are now used to ensure that the interest of conservative political thugs are "protected" and their enemies right's stripped. I had no idea that Christian America was under attack. (SARCASM).
A joke was recently made, a comparison if you will, in regards to the coming out of Tim Tebow as a Christian, and Jason Collins as a gay man. The former was seemingly criticized and told to keep his comments while the latter is hailed as a hero. And it bothers many that the American media had portrayed the two differently. Lets get something straight, we are living in United States, the land of the free worship, as long as its a Christian denomination. Jason Collins' coming out is and will be viewed as heroism so long as the rights of the LGBT community are continually and blatantly oppressed.
And here is why I am an apostate. My beliefs, my orientation, my religion, and my culture, will never supersede the basic, inalienable rights of the citizens of this country. Those religious convictions, they were merely a building frame to the awesome that I am today. Being a good person, a righteous person comes from the relationships, experiences of the years that pass. I do not care what some archaic book says in the first half about smiting the sodomites, because there is a whole lot of bullshit in their about marrying a few and dying over blended cloth. Not to mention that I am a sinner, multiple times over. I have not always honored my mother, and I have wished for things that another person possessed. I love my God, and believes he loves us all, but have also cursed him and asked him "why!?"
So no, I am not a good catholic, I am not a good follower of the church. I am an apostate.
<a href="http://hypnoticbard.blogspot.com/p/swearing-to-z.html" target="_blank"><img src= "http://i1293.photobucket.com/albums/b599/mountaindew711/ABC_zpsef721a16.jpg " /></a>
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Do-Over and maybe Change it up
I wrestled with this concept of the do over. We are human right? We all make mistakes, yearn for that opportunity where we could take it all back. This week's Theme Thursday is forcing me to go into the carpet bag of memories and pull out that one do-over. Shit...its a hard one for so many reasons. Mainly because I enjoy my time and my life and even though perfection is far beyond me, there really is nothing I can change, although there is that one little item that consistently nags at me.
I was married. Some of you know this. It's not my greatest accomplishment, considering the word "was" inserted before the "married". I don't like to admit it in front of other people. I don't like to be called the divorce chick. (it's happened and it annoys the fuck out of me). Privately I joke that considering how young I was when I was first married, that I might be the next Elizabeth Taylor...real fucking funny, right? But no, it's actually a very embarrassing topic for me, and here I am displaying it for the internet to dissect.
I was a divorced woman at the age of 21. We didn't have children...we were just married.
I walked down the aisle of a catholic church, the pews adorned with white flowers, as I made it to a priest who had previously lied about a chapter in history to push his own agenda...that story is for another day. I said vows that I was too young to comprehend in front of family and friends that I had not seen in years and really shared no emotional attachment. It was a show. A face I put on to prove that I had made a decision, and was going to go through with it no matter what anyone said.
I watched my aunt cry as she read from the bible. I dried my father's tears in the limo outside. I wore a white dress, and carried a gaudy bouquet. I listened to my mother's prayer as we waited to eat our first dinner with the masses who had arrived for the three course dinner and free flowing wine.
I thought of the panic attack I had in the car only two weeks before, as I cried to my friend "I am making a mistake". His face of "oh shit" made me wonder if I could play along and make this all work. Foolish thoughts for a foolish girl.
I ended my wedding night with an argument with the groom after my new father in law placed his hand on my sweat laden back, saying, "ah, this is what it means to call someone a wetback".
I cried on my perfect honeymoon as I spent my days exploring the Vatican alone, while telephoning home to tell them all how great this all was.
And I want to take it all back, and not get married. I don't want him to have my father's tears, my aunts choked back cries. I don't want him to be the one that I shared a vow. And to be fair, I am sure he probably wishes he had not had all of this with me either. Because there is someone that is so much more deserving than he.
I don't want it to exist. But I can not take it back. I want to! I want to pretend it didn't happen, but unfortunately it did...
But we get a do over right? So when it happens this next time with the love of my life, it won't be this huge mess of strangers all piled in a hot church. There won't be white gaudiness and taffeta. I won't be called a wetback at my own fucking wedding. But I will love every word that I utter to my babe. I will be excited to share my planning with my sisters, my parents, my brother, and aunts. I will gush to my girlfriends, and maybe his guy friends. And then, at that very moment, I will no longer wish for any more do-overs in my life.
I was married. Some of you know this. It's not my greatest accomplishment, considering the word "was" inserted before the "married". I don't like to admit it in front of other people. I don't like to be called the divorce chick. (it's happened and it annoys the fuck out of me). Privately I joke that considering how young I was when I was first married, that I might be the next Elizabeth Taylor...real fucking funny, right? But no, it's actually a very embarrassing topic for me, and here I am displaying it for the internet to dissect.
I was a divorced woman at the age of 21. We didn't have children...we were just married.
I walked down the aisle of a catholic church, the pews adorned with white flowers, as I made it to a priest who had previously lied about a chapter in history to push his own agenda...that story is for another day. I said vows that I was too young to comprehend in front of family and friends that I had not seen in years and really shared no emotional attachment. It was a show. A face I put on to prove that I had made a decision, and was going to go through with it no matter what anyone said.
I watched my aunt cry as she read from the bible. I dried my father's tears in the limo outside. I wore a white dress, and carried a gaudy bouquet. I listened to my mother's prayer as we waited to eat our first dinner with the masses who had arrived for the three course dinner and free flowing wine.
I thought of the panic attack I had in the car only two weeks before, as I cried to my friend "I am making a mistake". His face of "oh shit" made me wonder if I could play along and make this all work. Foolish thoughts for a foolish girl.
I ended my wedding night with an argument with the groom after my new father in law placed his hand on my sweat laden back, saying, "ah, this is what it means to call someone a wetback".
I cried on my perfect honeymoon as I spent my days exploring the Vatican alone, while telephoning home to tell them all how great this all was.
And I want to take it all back, and not get married. I don't want him to have my father's tears, my aunts choked back cries. I don't want him to be the one that I shared a vow. And to be fair, I am sure he probably wishes he had not had all of this with me either. Because there is someone that is so much more deserving than he.
I don't want it to exist. But I can not take it back. I want to! I want to pretend it didn't happen, but unfortunately it did...
But we get a do over right? So when it happens this next time with the love of my life, it won't be this huge mess of strangers all piled in a hot church. There won't be white gaudiness and taffeta. I won't be called a wetback at my own fucking wedding. But I will love every word that I utter to my babe. I will be excited to share my planning with my sisters, my parents, my brother, and aunts. I will gush to my girlfriends, and maybe his guy friends. And then, at that very moment, I will no longer wish for any more do-overs in my life.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Want to be friends?
In addition to my documentary film review, I decided to start a new series simply for the DO's and DONT's of anything you can think of....and I mean anything. I will
This week's will revolve around friendship. I am assuming that you, the reader, as well as any other bloggers out there, are well established adults who have already gone through the woes and perils of friendships, as well as the highs. Some of us have kept our friends since the moment we swapped binky's and realized that his privates didn't look anything like mine. (Thanks Gregory...). Some of us had a moment, a pivotal incident that resulted in the disintegration of the relationship. And sometimes, we have just outgrown these people we once called friend. We have treated these people as family, and we have turned against them. We have loved and hated, gossiped and respected.
I must make the disclaimer that the following list is not my personal plan, I do not pretend to follow all of the do and dont that I am about to list. I have made many mistakes in friendships, and will continue to make them. To say otherwise would be hypocritical and simply untrue. So before the eyes start rolling and the shit talking commences, please ensure that you aware of this fact.
And now - The Do's and Dont's of Friendship
Do maintain a level of friendliness with their spouses, significant others, etc...
Don't fuck their significant others and spouses.
Do express happiness in your friend's accomplishments.
Don't tell them "why not me?" and "how the fuck did you achieve something like that" in bitch face tone.
Do listen actively to your friend's issues regardless of how mundane and irritating they might sound...you all fucking complain.
Don't pass judgement on their mistakes...you aren't fucking perfect.
Do provide objective guidance and resolutions to a friend's issues.
Don't run and fucking tell everyone about their herpes outbreak.
Do invite for lunch or coffee, to attend dinner or a movie.
Don't bring extra people without asking, its rude and fucking annoying.
Do express excitement over their new beau, remember that we all have the initial excitement period...for some it lasts longer than others.
Don't be an asshole and call them codependent, especially when they mold their personalities to their different boyfriends.
Do be grateful for the favors that they do. They do this because they love and care about you and typically don't expect anything back.
Don't expect anything in return, or disappear because that person no longer has any tangible or theoretical favors to provide. This is selfish and bullshit.
Do thank them for putting up with your attitude. Remember, these people are choosing to put up with your shit, you do not share DNA....they do not HAVE to love you, but they do anyway.
Don't give them attitude, its not their fault they are not nearly as cool as you.
Do step in when they are in danger and have no conscious perception of this.
Don't be an asshole about being their superhero and be all up in their shit all the time...realize that there is a healthy balance.
Do respond to texts/calls directly.
Don't respond via social media, putting pertinent shit on blasts for the rest of the lurking community to see. It's fucking rude and inconsiderate. If you can update your FB status, you can reply to a text.
Do express your frustrations with the friendship directly. And feel free to take some time and space. Remember that even the closest of family and friends have issues, and even if you can't resolve in the immediate time frame, perhaps you can revisit and resolve the issues at a later date.
Don't force the friendship, especially when tensions are high. Typically, this is when the worst things are uttered to one another.
There are so many to lists, but these were a few that were nagging in the recent months. Always remember, relationships, platonic or not, are fluid and always evolving. Nothing is ever stagnant.
This week's will revolve around friendship. I am assuming that you, the reader, as well as any other bloggers out there, are well established adults who have already gone through the woes and perils of friendships, as well as the highs. Some of us have kept our friends since the moment we swapped binky's and realized that his privates didn't look anything like mine. (Thanks Gregory...). Some of us had a moment, a pivotal incident that resulted in the disintegration of the relationship. And sometimes, we have just outgrown these people we once called friend. We have treated these people as family, and we have turned against them. We have loved and hated, gossiped and respected.
I must make the disclaimer that the following list is not my personal plan, I do not pretend to follow all of the do and dont that I am about to list. I have made many mistakes in friendships, and will continue to make them. To say otherwise would be hypocritical and simply untrue. So before the eyes start rolling and the shit talking commences, please ensure that you aware of this fact.
And now - The Do's and Dont's of Friendship
Do maintain a level of friendliness with their spouses, significant others, etc...
Don't fuck their significant others and spouses.
Do express happiness in your friend's accomplishments.
Don't tell them "why not me?" and "how the fuck did you achieve something like that" in bitch face tone.
Do listen actively to your friend's issues regardless of how mundane and irritating they might sound...you all fucking complain.
Don't pass judgement on their mistakes...you aren't fucking perfect.
Do provide objective guidance and resolutions to a friend's issues.
Don't run and fucking tell everyone about their herpes outbreak.
Do invite for lunch or coffee, to attend dinner or a movie.
Don't bring extra people without asking, its rude and fucking annoying.
Do express excitement over their new beau, remember that we all have the initial excitement period...for some it lasts longer than others.
Don't be an asshole and call them codependent, especially when they mold their personalities to their different boyfriends.
Do be grateful for the favors that they do. They do this because they love and care about you and typically don't expect anything back.
Don't expect anything in return, or disappear because that person no longer has any tangible or theoretical favors to provide. This is selfish and bullshit.
Do thank them for putting up with your attitude. Remember, these people are choosing to put up with your shit, you do not share DNA....they do not HAVE to love you, but they do anyway.
Don't give them attitude, its not their fault they are not nearly as cool as you.
Do step in when they are in danger and have no conscious perception of this.
Don't be an asshole about being their superhero and be all up in their shit all the time...realize that there is a healthy balance.
Do respond to texts/calls directly.
Don't respond via social media, putting pertinent shit on blasts for the rest of the lurking community to see. It's fucking rude and inconsiderate. If you can update your FB status, you can reply to a text.
Do express your frustrations with the friendship directly. And feel free to take some time and space. Remember that even the closest of family and friends have issues, and even if you can't resolve in the immediate time frame, perhaps you can revisit and resolve the issues at a later date.
Don't force the friendship, especially when tensions are high. Typically, this is when the worst things are uttered to one another.
There are so many to lists, but these were a few that were nagging in the recent months. Always remember, relationships, platonic or not, are fluid and always evolving. Nothing is ever stagnant.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Not so Wasted Days and Wasted Nights
I am the oldest by six years. This meant that my summers were spent terrorizing my younger siblings in to playing school, where I was the evil head master and they were disgusting and vile students. I was such a shit to them, they had no choice but to play outside and entertain me because until July rolled around, I was stuck in a backyard filled with chickens, goats, and some cactus...this is downtown San Jose, California by the way.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jk7uXaNuWNEBut then the end of June/beginning of July would roll around. You see, from the age of 8 up until my quinceanera, I had the good fortune of being shipped to Texas. I realize how ass backwards this may sound...."good fortune" and "Texas" do not typically jive in the same sentence. But to me, this was all I could think or talk about.
My godparents moved to Texas when I was seven years old. They had a ranch about an hour south of Austin. But it might have been hours and hours away because most of my time was spent on that ranch in a town that was notorious for its great pecan...I wish I was joking. But it didn't bother me because I was care free, kid free, and my days were spent watching Mexican smut television and eating my godmother's home made tortillas. As to why I wasn't a tumbler is beyond me. My tummy days came way later. We would take a drive in to town, blasting Selena y los dinos, or some other tex-mex station. One year, at the age of thirteen, I earned my right of passage and was allowed to drive the truck from town to the ranch...I didn't kill anyone...but I did scare the shit out of everyone in the car. It should also be noted that my driving skills come from learning to drive in a monster truck on the solitary highway of Texas....so yeah...
Once in a while when my aunt Linda was in town we would take a trip down to Corpus Christi, where we would try to swim in an ocean but couldn't because of the warm salt water scratching the sight out of my eyes. Also, my aunt and godmother don't swim...so I would have been fucked. Other times we would drive to Mexico, spend the day in Piedras Negras buying candy and eating tacos from the street vendors.
I have spent a lot of summers in other places in the world. But I have to admit, Texas is place I loved to be.
My godparents moved to Texas when I was seven years old. They had a ranch about an hour south of Austin. But it might have been hours and hours away because most of my time was spent on that ranch in a town that was notorious for its great pecan...I wish I was joking. But it didn't bother me because I was care free, kid free, and my days were spent watching Mexican smut television and eating my godmother's home made tortillas. As to why I wasn't a tumbler is beyond me. My tummy days came way later. We would take a drive in to town, blasting Selena y los dinos, or some other tex-mex station. One year, at the age of thirteen, I earned my right of passage and was allowed to drive the truck from town to the ranch...I didn't kill anyone...but I did scare the shit out of everyone in the car. It should also be noted that my driving skills come from learning to drive in a monster truck on the solitary highway of Texas....so yeah...
Once in a while when my aunt Linda was in town we would take a trip down to Corpus Christi, where we would try to swim in an ocean but couldn't because of the warm salt water scratching the sight out of my eyes. Also, my aunt and godmother don't swim...so I would have been fucked. Other times we would drive to Mexico, spend the day in Piedras Negras buying candy and eating tacos from the street vendors.
I have spent a lot of summers in other places in the world. But I have to admit, Texas is place I loved to be.
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